


The Trapping of Birdy Edwards - Original Version

by Jolie_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Awesome Molly Hooper, Case Fic, Eventual Romance, F/M, Holmes Brothers, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Season/Series 03, Screenplay/Script Format, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Sherlolly - Freeform, extra episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3320345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>MOLLY: Sherlock Holmes, if you think that you can drag me through the nightclubs of this city as bait, just on the off chance that there’s some lunatic out there who deliberately targets young women below five foot four because he gets a kick out of them dying from ecstasy overdoses or something, you’re very much mistaken.</i><br/><i>SHERLOCK: How did you manage to get all of that out in a single breath?</i><br/><i>MOLLY: Learning by imitation, I suppose.</i><br/><i>SHERLOCK: Would you come if I found a better pretext?</i><br/>---------------------<br/>When a quiet night of research at Barts turns out to be the mere prelude to a kidnapping nightmare, Sherlock makes himself useful in an unexpected way, and Molly almost finds herself wishing that he hadn't. Almost. </p><p>Hurt/Comfort, Casefic and tentative Sherlolly.<br/>Rated T for violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE (February 2017): This story got canon-blasted in a number of details by season 4. If you prefer to read fully canon-compliant stories, try the revised, season 4-compatible version instead: [The Trapping of Birdy Edwards - New Version](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9647465/chapters/21796151). 
> 
> This story takes place about a month after the events concluding “His Last Vow”, and I’m assuming that the issue of Moriarty’s “return” has already been resolved. 
> 
> MDMA (short for 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine) is the scientific name for the drug commonly known as ecstasy. A lot of it that is sold in Europe is made in the Czech Republic. 
> 
> Not a rewrite of “The Valley of Fear”. I just nicked some names and ideas.

**_221B Baker Street. The living room._ ** _Darkness outside the windows, muted, cosy light from a reading lamp and the lamp above the kitchen table within. Sherlock, in his camel-coloured dressing gown, is pacing around the room, a sheet of paper in his hand and a pencil behind his ear, humming softly to himself, radiating the quiet contentment of being absorbed in a pleasurable task. He breaks off, repeats a few notes he has just hummed, then wanders over into the kitchen and sits down at the kitchen table. The table is covered with clutter, as usual – newspapers, used dishes, laboratory glassware in varying states of cleanness, a notepad, Sherlock's phone, a steaming mug of tea, a china plate with a flower design and a gold rim with three or four freshly baked scones on it, an open pot of strawberry jam, a plastic cup of clotted cream. Sherlock pushes some of the clutter out of the way to make room for the paper in his hand – music paper, half covered with handwritten music. He fishes an eraser out of the pocket of his dressing gown, corrects some of what he's jotted down, then puts the pencil down, takes up his phone, checks it for new messages – obviously in vain – and pulls the plate of scones towards him. He prepares one, complete with cream and jam, and bites into it. Then he freezes. There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Without taking the scone out of his mouth, Sherlock reaches out with his other hand and quickly covers both his phone and his music paper with a newspaper. By the time Mycroft Holmes – carrying his umbrella and a briefcase - has knocked on the open living room door and walked around into the kitchen to find his brother, Sherlock is innocently chewing again. He looks up at his visitor and raises his eyebrows, mouth too full for a verbal greeting._

MYCROFT: Good evening. _(His eyes wander across the kitchen table.)_ Nice to see you’re composing again.

_With a frown, Sherlock follows Mycroft’s gaze, which has come to rest on the pencil and the eraser on the table._

MYCROFT _(with a smile):_ It _is_ the only activity involving pen and paper at which I’ve ever seen you correct yourself.

_Sherlock gives his brother a dark look, then – rather uselessly - pushes the pencil and the eraser out of sight under the clutter, too._

MYCROFT _(nonchalantly):_ Nothing to be ashamed of, you know. It’s not half as absurd as trying to set up a baby travel cot, I believe.

_The dark look on Sherlock's face descends to murderous. Mycroft nods back towards the living room._

MYCROFT: The recent indentations in the carpet are faint but still there. Four of them in a rectangular alignment, at a distance of approximately 24 and 48 inches respectively – standard size for a baby travel cot. Don’t tell me it was anything else.

_Sherlock swallows his bite._

SHERLOCK _(sourly):_ Who am I to contend with such obvious expertise?

MYCROFT _(generously):_ I do admit that that mark on the side of your right index finger would have puzzled me for a while longer if I hadn’t happened to have noticed the very same on Anthea’s hands some time last year, when I realised that her younger sister must be expecting her first child. _(He nods towards Sherlock’s right hand.)_ The same two parallel lines, impressed deeply, and the skin in between red and swollen, though unbroken. These things do put up a fight when you try to collapse them again, don’t they? Apparently the trick is to depress both long sides simultaneously, and then pull up the centre bottom towards you. Well. Mrs Watson is not due to give birth for another fortnight. Lots of time left to practise.

_About half-way through this discourse, Sherlock has stopped listening, turned back towards his meal on the table and demolished the rest of the scone he had been eating when Mycroft came in. Now he licks his fingers clean and picks up the knife again. Mycroft walks around his brother's chair and sits down uninvited in the one next to it, depositing his briefcase on the floor at his side._

MYCROFT: And why are you having a cream tea at ten p.m., may I ask?

_Sherlock contemplates his brother in silence for a moment, then very deliberately slices open another scone, covers one half with a thick layer of clotted cream, dips his creamy knife straight into the jam pot – at which Mycroft grimaces in disgust – and adds a liberal amount of jam onto the cream. He then takes a huge bite, almost half of the scone disappearing into his mouth, and chews thoughtfully a couple of times, as if deliberating some particularly biting retort._

SHERLOCK _(finally, in a muffled voice):_ Why not?

_Mycroft sighs. Sherlock pushes the plate towards him._

SHERLOCK: Have one, too?

_Mycroft leans back and even slides his chair backwards a couple of inches, obviously appalled at the very idea of consuming so many calories at once._

MYCROFT _(stiffly):_ No, thank you.

_Sherlock smirks._

MYCROFT: I've heard that expectant fathers tend to overeat, in a subconscious desire to match their partner's changing shape, but I wasn't aware that the same applies to expectant godfathers, too. No, keep smirking, I don't mind. You're the one who's going to suffer the disappointment when you discover that all your touching efforts at getting _involved_ will pass largely unnoticed by the absorbed doting new parents.

SHERLOCK _(in a deceptively mild tone):_ Mycroft, we established a long time ago that a mere urgent desire to sneer at me is not a sufficient reason for imposing your presence on me, and the same, by extension, applies to sneering at any of my friends. So unless you have anything of substance to say, get out of my house.

MYCROFT: Oh, I have.

SHERLOCK _(taking another bite of his scone):_ Well, spill it.

MYCROFT _(after a moment's pause):_ Put that knife down for a moment.

_Sherlock swallows his bite and tightens his hold on the knife._

SHERLOCK _(suspiciously):_ Why?

MYCROFT: Because I’m going to say a few things now that you won’t like to hear, so I’d rather not be talking to an armed man.

_Sherlock snorts and all but throws the knife down onto Mrs Hudson’s best tableware with a clatter._

MYCROFT _(pointedly):_ Thank you.

SHERLOCK: Hurry up. I’m still hungry.

MYCROFT: Yes, I know you are. _(He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.)_ You’ve grown quite insatiable of late, I’ve noticed. It’s a bit like a drug, isn’t it? Once you’ve tasted it, you keep wanting more of it, even though it may not always be wise, or healthy.

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ There’s nothing wrong with Mrs Hudson’s baking, Mycroft. And you’re the one who inherited our mother’s tendency towards obesity, not me.

MYCROFT: I wasn’t talking about scones, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK ( _drily):_ No, obviously not.

MYCROFT: I’m talking about another very strange habit that you seem to have developed lately. I admit I am at a loss what to call it.

SHERLOCK: Well, that doesn’t happen often. Though given the subject matter, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

_Mycroft opens his mouth as if to disagree, then closes it again and exhales in resignation._

SHERLOCK: But if this is going to be simply another instance of what is in fact nothing but pathetic jealousy in the guise of patronizing disapproval, you might just as well save your breath. We’re not going over this again. I didn’t see it. I paid for it. End of story.

_Mycroft leans forward in his chair, an almost pained look on his face._

MYCROFT: I wish it was.

SHERLOCK: It is.

MYCROFT: Of that particular instalment, maybe. Promise me that it won’t get serialised.

SHERLOCK _(raising his eyebrows):_ “It.”

MYCROFT: Yes. That ridiculous hunger for company, that strange need of surrounding yourself with people you want to think of as your _friends_ , and that blindness to their true natures, and their true motives. It is a drug, Sherlock. I don't blame John Watson for introducing you to it. If you had restricted yourself to him, I believe the problem would have remained manageable. But what worries me is how you fail to see that you won’t necessarily find that same sort of _high_ again with just anyone else on whom you please to stick the same label. Even though you've had a good taste already of what it feels like to overdose on that particular poison.

SHERLOCK _(sharply):_ Mycroft, you are the last person who has any right to speak to me, or to anyone, of who or what deserves the name of friendship.

MYCROFT: I concede that I may lack the practical experience. But then, you should not need me to remind you to at least entertain the possibility of ulterior motives and hidden agendas, now and again. ( _A silence. Mycroft folds his hand on the table.)_ A mentally unhinged ex-forensics officer, whom you choose to provide with exclusive interviews to support his utterly absurd conspiracy theories. An underfed junkie, who tags along after you like a lap dog and prides himself on playing your new assistant. A girl, whom you let not only into your house but even into your bed, and I suspect at least half-way into your heart as well, when you barely knew her at all. What kind of company is that? It is not only unwise, Sherlock, it may be dangerous.

SHERLOCK _(testily):_ The last time anyone let Anderson into my house, it wasn’t me, remember?

MYCROFT _(with a shrug):_ He had his uses, that day.

SHERLOCK: So had Janine, and so has Bill Wiggins. They’re not my friends, Mycroft. They’re means to an end.

MYCROFT _(coldly):_ I once, long ago, heard you say the same about Molly Hooper.

_Sherlock abruptly raises his head and looks at Mycroft in surprise._

MYCROFT: And look how easy it’s become to unsettle you. Sentiment, Sherlock. Never a good counsellor. _(With an air of concluding the conversation)_ So, before you embrace the entire world in your new-found enthusiasm for love and trust and all the other attending ills of ordinary interpersonal relationships, and maybe get another knife in your back in the process -

_Sherlock picks up the cream-and-jam knife from the plate on the table and points it threateningly at his brother._

SHERLOCK: – speaking of which –

MYCROFT _(unfazed):_ \- let me at least make sure that your private health and disability insurances are in good order and up to date.

_Sherlock lets the knife sink down again, completely taken aback. Mycroft, either unaware of his brother’s reaction or ignoring it, leans down to his briefcase and takes out a leather-bound folder, from which he produces a number of documents._

MYCROFT _(looking over the papers, in a business-like tone):_ They’re raising your premiums again, to a height that's beginning to border on ridiculous, so before I agree in your name, I thought –

SHERLOCK _(slowly catching up):_ You're here to discuss my private health and disability insurances?

MYCROFT: Yes. I've just said so.

SHERLOCK: I _have_ private health and disability insurances?

MYCROFT _(impatiently):_ Of course you have. _(He gives his brother a reproachful look.)_ On the NHS, there would probably have been a three or four weeks waiting list for the removal of the bullet alone. Now, as you’re probably aware, a rise in the premiums gives you the right to terminate the entire contract, but I must warn you that it was difficult enough to find anyone who’d take you at all, after your resurrection from the pavement in front of Barts. And since “Consulting Detective” is not a recognised profession in their catalogue, they were practically free to make up the premium on the disability insurance themselves, and I’m afraid they’ve taken full advantage of it.

SHERLOCK _(muttering):_ In that case, I really don’t want to know where you rank in their risk groups.

MYCROFT: Oh, modestly, by comparison.

SHERLOCK: They have a category for “Master of Puppets”?

MYCROFT _(pointedly):_ “Civil Servant - Other”. Very low down on the list, I assure you. I'm a downright bargain, compared to you. Anyway. Look at this.

_He points at one of the papers. Sherlock leans over to get a better look._

MYCROFT: I thought this worth pointing out, too. Your health insurance comes with a clause that most emphatically excludes coverage for any self-inflicted injuries or conditions, whatever the means or the reason.

SHERLOCK _(in a flat voice):_ Why would I want to injure myself?

MYCROFT: Well, with a man with a history of jumping off buildings in a good cause, it is a logical assumption that something of the sort may happen again, and maybe go less smoothly than last time. Not to mention the fact that he sometimes sticks needles in his arms as well, just to make a point.

SHERLOCK _(glancing up at his brother with a frown):_ There _was_ a point, Mycroft.

MYCROFT _(coolly):_ Whatever the means or the reason, dear brother. That includes everything from struggling with baby cots to abuse of illegal substances.

_Sherlock leans back again with a sigh of resignation._

SHERLOCK: They must have been massively displeased with me when they got that last hospital bill.

MYCROFT: Except they never saw that one, much less paid it.

SHERLOCK: What?

MYCROFT _(with a shrug):_ I suppose they’d have kicked you out of the contract altogether if they’d got to see it.

SHERLOCK: Who paid it then?

MYCROFT: Lady Smallwood.

_Sherlock stares at his brother, the frown on his face giving way to an almost pained expression. There is a silence._

SHERLOCK _(after a moment):_ All of it, or just the first week?

MYCROFT: All of it. _(He sighs.)_ She insisted that everything that happened was a direct result of her commissioning you to negotiate on her behalf, and thus, her responsibility. _(Seeing the look on his brother’s face.)_ I tried. It’s no use.

_Sherlock nods slowly, looking down at the table in front of him, his appetite for the remaining scones obviously gone._

MYCROFT _(in a business-like tone again):_ However, since we can’t always rely on your future clients to display the same degree of magnanimity, I strongly suggest that -

_There is the sound of the doorbell, and the front door below opening and closing. Muted conversation between Mrs Hudson and a visitor, and then the footsteps of a man on the stairs._

MYCROFT: - that we accept these conditions as they are. Sherlock, are you listening? Detective Inspector Lestrade is going to declare neither the identity of the victim nor the manner of death nor the location of the crime scene before he has actually entered the room, and –

_There is a knock on the kitchen door, and Greg Lestrade looks in._

LESTRADE: Oh. Sorry. Mrs Hudson said –

SHERLOCK: It’s fine, come in.

_Lestrade opens the door fully and enters, looking from Sherlock to Mycroft and back, still uncertain whether he is welcome. Sherlock smiles, if a little artificially, and jerks his head at Mycroft._

SHERLOCK: Just having a friendly little chat with my probation officer. He's trying to bore me to death with paperwork about insurance issues.

MYCROFT _(drily):_ But he would like to state in his defence that he didn’t start until his client here tried to stab _him_ to death with a blunt butter knife smeared with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

_Greg Lestrade's eyes visibly brighten, but whether at the mention of two new murder cases at once or at that of cream and strawberry jam is unclear. Sherlock picks up one of the remaining scones._

SHERLOCK: Cream _and_ jam?

LESTRADE: Sure. Brilliant. I'm starving.

_Sherlock proceeds to prepare a scone for Lestrade, being even more generous with the cream and the jam than he was for himself. Mycroft looks downright revolted. Lestrade, noticing it, gives him a slightly concerned sidelong glance._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ Never mind him. He envies you, is all. Here.

_He picks up the plate and hands it to Lestrade._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock, in a dignified tone):_ I most certainly do not. _(To Lestrade, generously)_ But enjoy your scone, Detective Inspector. _(Lestrade nods in acknowledgment and tucks in.)_ Since you'll obviously be on the road again within the next five minutes, whisking my brother away to another crime scene – no, this time directly to the morgue, isn’t it? – you might as well face whatever horrors await you there on a full stomach.

_Lestrade’s mouth is too full of scone to voice his astonishment, but his eyes grow wide in a very eloquent manner._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ And we were finished at any rate, I believe. Keep it in mind.

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ What, the knife in the back?

MYCROFT: That, and the clause in the contract.

_Lestrade’s eyes go back and forth again between the two brothers, puzzled. He is still chewing vigorously._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft):_ You don’t trust me to avoid either of that for any length of time, do you?

MYCROFT: Well, if the precedents were more in your favour, I’d give you about a fortnight on both counts. As it is, a week.

SHERLOCK _(with a snort):_ I'll bet you.

MYCROFT: I never bet.

SHERLOCK: True. Neither do I. _(He holds out his hand.)_ Is it on then?

MYCROFT: Absolutely.

_He takes his brother’s hand and gives it a brief, firm shake._

SHERLOCK _(with a sour smile):_ Mind the pinch.

MYCROFT _(pointedly):_ Apologies.

_He lets go of his brother’s hand, collects the papers on the table, puts them back in his briefcase and gets up. Then he turns to shake hands with Lestrade as well, who has finished his scone by now._

LESTRADE _(with a politely restrained but still audible note of triumph in his voice):_ It wasn't a knife in the back though.

MYCROFT _(smoothly):_ I never said it was. Good evening to you both.

_He gives both men a nod to share between them, and exits the room. The moment he is gone, Sherlock springs into action. He is out of his dressing gown and half-way down the corridor to his room in less than three seconds, calling back to Lestrade over his shoulder._

SHERLOCK: The morgue, is it? Not another silly kid trying too hard to have a good time on a Saturday night?

LESTRADE: Exactly that, I’m afraid.

SHERLOCK _(off-screen, from the direction of his bedroom):_ Number five, is it?

LESTRADE _(calling after him):_ Six!

SHERLOCK _(still off-screen):_ How come she’s already there in the morgue? It’s barely eleven!

LESTRADE That’s what I’d like to know, too. Boss McGinty strikes again, probably.

SHERLOCK: Boss who?

_He’s back, with his jacket and shoes on, unearths his phone from the kitchen table and squeezes past Lestrade to get to his coat, on the hook at the back of the living-room door._

LESTRADE: Boss McGinty. I’ll explain in the car. And how do you know it’s a girl, anyway?

SHERLOCK _(putting his coat and scarf on):_ All the others were. _(With a somewhat reproachful look at Lestrade)_ I do read the papers, you know. Come on!

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The Morgue._ ** _In one of the brightly lit dissecting rooms, a young woman’s body is laid on a table, a sheet covering her from neck to toes. At a workbench at the side of the room, Sherlock, Lestrade and Molly Hooper stand together in a semi-circle, all three of them looking down at a small plastic bag which contains a single small yellow pill, stamped with a cheerful sunflower design._

SHERLOCK _(reaching for the bag):_ Well, then –

LESTRADE: No, wait.

SHERLOCK: Why?

LESTRADE: I don’t want anything to go wrong.

_Sherlock gives Lestrade an exasperated look._

LESTRADE: No, really. It’s the first real lead we have, the first time we’ve actually got our hands on one of these pills. I can’t afford -

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Well, if you’d rather wait for your own techs at the Yard to come up with an analysis – some time in March, probably, when the trail has long grown cold…

_Lestrade looks unhappy._

MOLLY: Half of it, Greg?

_Both men look at her in surprise._

MOLLY: Half of it will do. You take the other half with you, and let your own people look at it. That way it’s still regular but also a lot quicker than usual. _(With a sidelong glance at Sherlock)_ And you’ll be making someone very happy.

LESTRADE: How am I going to explain where the other half is?

SHERLOCK _(with a broad, confident smile):_ You'll have your case solved long before it's missed.

LESTRADE _(to Molly, with a sigh):_ Why does he always have to be right?

MOLLY: He can’t help it, you know. I think it’s called something Latin with at least twelve syllables; it’s hereditary, apparently, and it’s not contagious but really useful on occasion, so don’t worry about it.

_Sherlock looks at her in surprise, opens his mouth, then changes his mind and closes it again. Molly puts on a pair of gloves, carefully opens the evidence bag, cuts the tablet in it neatly in half with a lancet, replaces one half and puts the other in a small glass jar, stoppers it tightly and hands it to Sherlock._

MOLLY _(to Sherlock):_ You go ahead and see what you can find out. I’ll be with you in half an hour with the stomach contents.

_She turns towards the dissecting table and lets her gaze rest for a moment on the dead girl’s face. The girl looks to be in her early twenties, her peroxide blonde hair, done up elaborately for a night out, now lank and dishevelled, the remains of her careful make-up standing out strangely, almost glaringly, against the pale skin of her still face._

MOLLY: How did she die so quickly, Greg?

LESTRADE _(quietly):_ I was hoping you would tell us that.

MOLLY _(her eyes still on the body):_ Yes. I know. I will. _(She turns to look up at Lestrade.)_ I was just wondering what you’ve heard. How it happened.

LESTRADE _(with a shrug):_ Night out with her boyfriend. He thought he’d treat them both to something special. Paid twenty-five quid for each of the two pills. She swallowed hers at once, he was going to save his for a bit later, that’s why he still had it. They both weren’t new to it. He said she usually took a longer time than him to feel the effect.

SHERLOCK: Paid twenty-five quid to whom?

LESTRADE: To another girl. In the club. Didn’t know the name, or couldn’t remember. The poor kid was in shock when I got there, could barely get two coherent words out of him. They danced for a bit when she started to seize up, broke down on the dance-floor, twitching and struggling to breathe. By the time the ambulance got there, she was comatose. Died on the way to the A & E, was pronounced dead by the doc in charge there, got redirected straight here.

SHERLOCK: And all of that in less than an hour. Amazing. What club was it?

LESTRADE: It’s called The Lodge. In the West End. Not particularly notorious. Right. Can I leave you two to it? _(In a tone of paternal concern)_ But don't stay up all night, alright? Do get a bit of sleep. Both of you.

_Sherlock scowls. Molly smiles._

MOLLY: You too, Greg.

* * * 

 **_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Molly Hooper’s lab._ ** _Subdued light and nightly quiet. By the clock on the wall, it is half past twelve. Sherlock has put his coat and scarf over the back of a chair and is sitting at a microscope, looking at a slide that contains a small quantity of a powdered substance, by the still discernible yellow colour a part of the half of the tablet he has been given to examine. His phone is next to him on the bench. From time to time, he glances at it, although there is neither a visible nor an audible signal that there’s anything new on it to see. Molly Hooper walks past him carrying a small stainless steel bowl._

MOLLY: Anything?

SHERLOCK _(a little testily):_ You can rely on me telling you straight away if there is, Molly.

_Molly stops in her tracks and we can actually see the “Sorry“ forming on her lips, when she changes it to a curt_

MOLLY: Alright.

_and walks on. Sherlock almost furtively glances up at her back, more surprised than put out. Then his eyes return to the microscope._

SHERLOCK _(after another minute, under his breath):_ It’s just MDMA. Just plain, ordinary, mundane hydrochloride salt of MDMA.

MOLLY _(from the other side of the room, busy separating the contents of her bowl into Petri dishes):_ Sorry, what?

_Sherlock leans back from the microscope and blinks a couple of times to relax his eyes._

SHERLOCK: It’s just MDMA. Nothing special at all.

MOLLY _(with her back still turned to him):_ Like in all the other cases, then.

SHERLOCK: But who still takes ecstasy, nowadays? And pays twenty-five pounds for a single dose? Just to die a pathetic death?

MOLLY: Well, you can’t expect everyone to try and die as spectacularly as possible just for your entertainment.

_Sherlock snorts._

SHERLOCK: It doesn’t make sense.

MOLLY: Greg thinks it does.

SHERLOCK: Oh, yes. “Boss McGinty strikes again.”

_He shakes his head, then takes the slide out from under the microscope and switches it off. He gets up from his stool and turns towards Molly, who is still busy at her workbench._

MOLLY _(over her shoulder):_ He mentioned that?

SHERLOCK: Yes. Mentioned the name, said he’d explain in the car, then was too busy filling me in on the details of all the previous cases, and then we were here already. Well, you tell me now. _(He pulls a face, eyes wide in a grimace of mock-excitement.)_ Who is that enigmatic Boss McGinty who goes around London poisoning innocent girls?

MOLLY: They all poisoned themselves, you know. With ecstasy tablets stamped with a sunflower, which they’d bought because someone had whispered to them that they came straight from Boss McGinty’s lab. Like a brand name, you know. I don’t believe there’s more to it than that. Not like it’s a real person or anything. Just a silly name.

_Sherlock is silent for quite a while, his eyebrows drawn together, deep in thought. Molly works on, her lancet and tweezers clattering faintly. Then –_

SHERLOCK _(very gently):_ Molly?

_She freezes, but does not turn around._

SHERLOCK: Why do you want me to believe that?

_He walks up to her side and stands next to her by the bench, though not close enough to hamper her movements or disturb her in her work. She shoots him a sidelong glance._

SHERLOCK: Why?

MOLLY _(her eyes back on her work):_ Because this stuff, when ingested, has a half-life of no more than two and a half hours, so if we want to get anywhere, we’d better not waste any time theorising about the latest quirks in rave culture speak.

SHERLOCK: Point taken.

_He smiles down at her. She looks up and smiles back._

SHERLOCK _(after a moment, in a business-like tone):_ Can I take a look at your reports on the five previous ones?

_Molly points over her shoulder at a large cabinet at the other end of the room._

MOLLY: All in the folders for December and this month, respectively.

 * * *

 **_An hour later,_ ** _Sherlock is back at his own bench, sitting at it in a pool of light from a single desk lamp. Everything around him is dark and utterly quiet. He has spread out the autopsy reports on the five previous ecstasy victims and is still poring over them, elbows propped on the table, his head in his hands. Then he picks up his phone, checks it for new messages, and puts it down again. Molly, who was nowhere to be seen, re-enters the room from the corridor, a sheaf of papers - computer printouts - in her hand and a look of deep satisfaction on her face. Sherlock looks up briefly at the sound of the door opening and closing again._

SHERLOCK: Six girls die over the course of barely eight weeks, all from taking an ecstasy tablet stamped with a sunflower, and the only other unifying factor is their shoe size.

MOLLY: What?

SHERLOCK: Their shoe size. Three and a half, invariably.

MOLLY _(with a laugh):_ Lots of women wear that size, Sherlock. I do.

_Sherlock’s eyes travel down Molly’s person to where the tips of her light brown trainers peek out under the hem of the comfortable burgundy-coloured corduroy trousers she’s wearing under her lab coat. Then they travel up again all the way to her face. Molly blushes. Sherlock, apparently unaware of the possibly offensive nature of such a scrutiny, smiles contentedly._

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. Yes, that’s it. You’re a _small_ woman, Molly.

MOLLY _(wavering between embarrassment and belligerence, and finally settling on the latter):_ And you’re not as tall as people think, either.

SHERLOCK _(distractedly):_ Who said I was? The point is, all those girls were small, too. None of them was taller than five foot four, and their BMIs… _(He scans the reports in front of him for the relevant data.)_ … never higher than nineteen.

MOLLY: You mean that’s why they all overdosed? Because the dose would have been fine for anyone with more – body – to digest it, but because they were kind of petite, it was too much for them?

SHERLOCK: Precisely.

MOLLY: Good. Well done.

SHERLOCK: What?

MOLLY: That coincides exactly with what the contents of poor Gemma’s stomach are telling me. _(She holds up the printouts.)_ I won’t bore you with the calculations unless you insist, but it all amounts to an unusually high concentration of MDMA in that single pill. Over a hundred milligrams, more like a hundred and twenty. _(Sherlock raises his eyebrows.)_ Explains the price, and the effect. That much of it would kill _me_ easily.

SHERLOCK: It very likely would.

_He contemplates her for a moment with his head to one side, like one would contemplate the set-up for an experiment that might yield interesting results. Molly looks deeply disconcerted for a moment, then composes her face into an expression of stern disapproval._

MOLLY: Sherlock Holmes, if you think that you can drag me through the nightclubs of this city as _bait_ , just on the off chance that there’s some lunatic out there who deliberately targets young women below five foot four because he gets a kick out of them dying from ecstasy overdoses or something, you’re very much mistaken.

SHERLOCK _(after a moment of dumbfounded silence):_ How did you manage to get all of that out in a single breath?

MOLLY: Learning by imitation, I suppose.

SHERLOCK _(dead serious):_ Would you come if I found a better pretext?

MOLLY _(looking down her lab coat to hide another blush rising up her face):_ I'm not even remotely dressed for clubbing, am I?

SHERLOCK: Who cares.

MOLLY _(visibly sobering again):_ And besides, I’m on call til eight in the morning.

SHERLOCK: Oh.

MOLLY: Yes. Not doing overtime just to keep you company, you know.

SHERLOCK _(equally soberly):_ I didn’t think you were.

_There is another pause._

SHERLOCK _(almost gently):_ Molly ... is there any hope of –

MOLLY: - coffee? _(She smiles a little distractedly.)_ Not at this hour, no. Except if you’re content with stale Nescafe out of my thermos.

SHERLOCK _(quickly):_ No, that’s yours, don’t –

_But Molly has already walked over to the chair where she has placed her bag, taken out a small thermos flask, opened it and put the lid that doubles as a cup on the bench in front of Sherlock, filled with steaming coffee. Then she pulls up a stool for herself and sits down at his side, glancing over the reports._

MOLLY: But we’ve as good as settled Greg’s big question now, haven't we, whether this series of deaths could have been deliberate or not?

_She collects the reports in her hand and flicks through them. Sherlock reaches for the coffee cup and takes a sip. He grimaces briefly at the taste, but then takes another._

MOLLY: They all had MDMA in their bloodstream, but since they all took much longer to die than Gemma tonight – up to five days of coma – of course it was too late to examine the amount they’d actually ingested. And there’s no certain way to calculate that from a blood sample alone. But doesn’t it make sense to assume that their pills had the same unusual – and dangerous – concentration of MDMA in them as the one Gemma took? And whenever any of their friends bought and took the same sort of pills and survived, they were simply saved by their higher BMIs?

_Automatically, her eyes still on the papers, she reaches out to where Sherlock has replaced the coffee cup on the worktop, takes a sip as well and puts the cup back down._

SHERLOCK _(with a yawn):_ Should be easy enough for Greg to verify whether there was a pattern there.

_He sounds genuinely disappointed, not to say frustrated, at this mundane explanation._

MOLLY _(with a smile):_ No Jack the Raver, then.

SHERLOCK _(unsmiling):_ No.

MOLLY: You know, most people would take comfort from the fact that those deaths were tragic and pointless but random coincidences, rather than the work of some homicidal maniac.

SHERLOCK _(testily):_ What’s comforting in a pointless death, Molly?

MOLLY _(awkwardly):_ I didn’t mean -

SHERLOCK _(talking right over her, staring at a point in the far distance, beyond the walls of the lab):_ And there still remains the fact that someone in this city is currently flooding the market with highly concentrated MDMA, quietly making a fortune while walking over the bodies of young women who simply happen to be bordering on underweight. _(His eyes return to Molly. Almost accusingly)_ And you tell me Boss McGinty is just a silly name.

_He picks up the small coffee cup again, drains it, gets up, refills it from the thermos flask, takes another sip and puts it down again on the worktop._

SHERLOCK: And now do tell me why both you and Greg are so determined to divert my attention from that point, when the entire case in fact hinges on who that person really is.

_Molly puts her elbows on the surface of the bench and rests her head in her hands for a moment. Then she runs her palms over her cheeks and sighs in resignation, looking suddenly very tired._

MOLLY: Alright. Look, I think Greg doesn’t really want you to go into this because – I don’t know, he’s worried.

SHERLOCK: So would I be, if I had someone that dangerous and unpredictable on my hands.

MOLLY: He's worried about _you_ , Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: Oh. _(After a moment, sarcastically)_ Well, ditto.

_Molly gives him a reproachful look. He sits down again._

SHERLOCK: Molly, _tell_ me. What do they know, what do they suspect, and why am I not supposed to help, except with an insultingly simple chemical analysis that any trainee at the Yard could have pulled off in an hour or two?

MOLLY: Well. _(She takes another sip of their coffee, which by now seems to have been mutualised by silent accord.)_ As to why Greg's calling you in only now – when the girls started dying, back in December, you were barely home again, and not supposed to exert yourself.

SHERLOCK _(peevishly):_ I wasn't aware that I had to be back to a hundred and fifty sit-ups before bedtime to be allowed to look at five autopsy reports, and into one microscope.

MOLLY _(drily):_ I'm sure a mere hundred would have done, too.

_Sherlock gives her an irritated look._

MOLLY _(no longer teasing, but genuinely interested):_ What are you at, by the way?

SHERLOCK: Forty-eight. _(With a wry smile)_ Getting there. Anyway -

MOLLY: Anyway, by that time, the drugs squad at the Met were already aware of Boss McGinty. He – or she, or they, whatever – had already made a name for themselves with what was considered the best stuff there was to be had in town. They'd risen like a comet, out of nowhere. Within a very few months, that name had become a household word in rave culture. And the price for those sunflower pills was rising steadily. And then the first girl died, and a week later, two more. And the rest you know.

SHERLOCK: You said that the pills were being referred to as coming from their lab.

MOLLY: Yes. At the Met, they’re assuming that they run their own drug lab here in London. Which is strange, because sooner or later bulk orders of those sorts of chemicals are bound to get noticed. As is the apparatus you need. But it’s never been discovered.

SHERLOCK: If they’re making the stuff themselves, they must have a background in that sort of thing. It’s not like you can pull it off with any kid’s chemistry set. Not in those quantities, anyway. That should narrow the field considerably.

MOLLY: Not really. So many people could do it, you know. You could. I could. Probably each and every tech in our pharmacy downstairs could. _(Sherlock frowns ever so slightly.)_ Nobody at the Met, as far as I know, has any idea or any lead who is behind it all. I think Greg is kind of secretly hoping that you might provide it if you look into the technical side of it, but at the same time, he really isn't keen on you running off to hunt Boss McGinty down single-handedly.

SHERLOCK: Why shouldn't I? Would save him a lot of trouble.

MOLLY _(uncomfortably):_ You know, he thinks you might take it a little too – personally, probably.

SHERLOCK: What? Why?

MOLLY: Because, you know, all this happened when you were out of action. It’s like they took advantage of you being away, or something. Nobody there to stop them.

SHERLOCK _(with an incredulous laugh):_ And now Greg thinks that’s reason enough for me to go on some sort of personal vendetta? Like I’d be affronted by the fact that everyone in the London underworld didn’t immediately stop committing crimes as soon as they heard I was in hospital and missing all the fun?

MOLLY _(in an appeasing tone):_ I know it sounds absurd when you put it like that.

SHERLOCK: It _is_ absurd.

_There is a buzz from a phone. Sherlock, almost electrified, immediately reaches for his, which is still lying on the bench._

MOLLY: No, that was mine. _(She takes it out of the pocket of her lab coat and glances at the screen.)_ It’s just Heather from the ICU. _(Apologetically)_ We usually meet for a chat between two and three when we’re both doing nights.

SHERLOCK _(pocketing his own phone):_ Well, don’t let me keep you.

_He makes a move as if to get up._

MOLLY _(hastily):_ No, please don’t feel like you have to –

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ What, do overtime just to keep you company? _(Molly blushes furiously. Sherlock stands up and reaches for his coat.)_ No, it’s fine. I think we got as far here as we could get tonight. I’m off home.

MOLLY _(quietly):_ Alright. Good night. And remember what Greg said about getting some sleep. Don’t think about it too much, will you?

SHERLOCK: Maybe I’ll find the answer waiting on the doorstep when I get home.

MOLLY _(now smiling as well):_ Well, then don’t stumble over it in the dark.

 * * *


	3. Chapter 3

**_Baker Street, outside No. 221B._ ** _Night-time. The street is all but deserted. All the windows of No. 221B and most windows of the surrounding houses are dark. A cab passes by, then another going in the opposite direction, then the street is quiet again. Sherlock can be seen walking down the pavement towards his home, huddled in his coat and scarf, his breath visible in the cold air. As he approaches his front door, the figure of a man with a hood over his head who must have been sitting on the step rises to meet him. Sherlock comes to a halt, obviously not surprised to find he has a very late visitor._

SHERLOCK _(in a quiet voice):_ Good morning, Bill.

_The visitor lowers his hood, revealing the face of Bill Wiggins to the dim street lights._

BILL _(in a plaintive tone):_ I was jus’ goin’ to bed.

SHERLOCK _(rummaging in his coat pocket for his keys):_ Come in for a second. I’ve got some scones left.

BILL: Hate ‘em.

SHERLOCK: No, you love them, actually, but you don’t want to feel like you depend on my charity. Well, come in and starve, then.

BILL: Don’t wanna wake Mrs Hudson.

_Sherlock raises his eyebrows._

BILL _(impatiently)_ : So, you got a job for me, or not?

SHERLOCK: Yes, I have.

BILL: What is it?

SHERLOCK: Boss McGinty.

_Bill opens his mouth, then closes it again. There is a silence. Sherlock and Bill look at each other, Sherlock expectant, Bill rather unsettled. Finally, Bill exhales audibly._

BILL _(in a low voice):_ You wanna be careful.

SHERLOCK: Of course. That’s my middle name.

BILL: No, but really. I know what I’m talkin’ about.

_Sherlock raises his eyebrows questioningly._

BILL _(in an even lower tone, confidentially):_ Tried to recruit me. Couple o’ months back. Knew I was good with mixin’ stuff an’ how to get me hands on the equipment an’ all, from me old job. I said no.

SHERLOCK: Pay not good enough?

BILL: Nope. Scared the shit outa me.

SHERLOCK: You’ve actually met them?

BILL: No. Jus’ people what worked for ‘em. Scary blokes. Backed out double quick as fast as I could. Really glad they didn’t know me real name, too.

SHERLOCK: Can you find them again? The scary blokes?

BILL: Don’t see why I’d want to.

SHERLOCK: Scones? And if you do find them, I’ll even make you tea.

BILL: Not that hungry, really.

_Sherlock shrugs._

SHERLOCK: Call me when you’ve found them.

_He takes out his keys and moves towards the front door of No. 221B. Bill grumbles something inaudible under his breath, puts his hood back up and his hands in his pockets, and turns to walk away. Sherlock, with the key already in the lock, calls after him._

SHERLOCK: Bill?

_Bill turns back towards him, his face invisible now in the shadow of his hood._

SHERLOCK: What name did they know you by?

_Bill hesitates for a moment before answering._

BILL: Porlock. Bill Porlock.

* * *

 **_221B Baker Street. The kitchen._ ** _Early afternoon on the next, or rather the same, day. Sherlock, hair wet from the shower, in his dressing gown over a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, is sitting at the table and toying distractedly with a full fry-up version of breakfast. His eyes are on a newspaper rather than on his plate, but they keep flickering back and forth between the article he is reading and the phone on the table next to his tea mug. There is a cheerful knock on the jamb of the open living room door._

MRS HUDSON (off-screen): Oohoo!

_Sherlock looks up. Mrs Hudson comes walking around into the kitchen._

MRS HUDSON: Good morning! Or rather, good afternoon. Can I – oh. _(She points at the plate.)_ I thought you’d be long finished.

_Sherlock glances at the clock on the wall._

SHERLOCK: I’m actually three hours early, according to my current schedule.

MRS HUDSON: What? It’s 1 p. m., and you’re breakfasting. What’s early about that? _(Affectionately)_ Oh! You’re going to tell me now that you’re already eating tomorrow’s breakfast, right? _(She wags a finger at him.)_ Clever you. See, I know you too well.

_Sherlock sighs. Mrs Hudson steps closer to the table._

MRS HUDSON: Are you eating that _cold?_

SHERLOCK: There was no room in the microwave.

MRS HUDSON _(turning towards the appliance in question and actually putting her hand on the button that releases the door):_ What? Why –

SHERLOCK _(rather sharply):_ Mrs Hudson!

_Mrs Hudson turns back to him, slightly affronted by his tone, but takes her hand off the microwave._

SHERLOCK: In the interest of your own safety, don’t open that.

MRS HUDSON _(shaking her head at him):_ In the interest of my sanity, I suppose I shouldn’t.

_Sherlock takes a moment to make up his mind whether to glare or smile at her. Then his phone takes the decision out of his hands by starting to ring. He grabs it immediately, and without a second glance at Mrs Hudson, swishes past her into the living-room, a huge smile beginning to form on his face._

SHERLOCK _(into the phone):_ Yes? _(He stops dead, and his face falls.)_ Oh, Bill. Alright. What - _(He listens.)_ _What?_ Where are you? Kew Gardens? _(Another pause.)_ What do you mean, they suspect _? (An even longer pause.)_ Yes, OK. I’ll be there in an hour. Three quarters. Yes, I’ll hurry. Just don’t do anything stupid, alright?

_He ends the call and stands staring out of the window for a moment._

MRS HUDSON _(her mind still on breakfast):_ So, are you going to finish that, or not?

SHERLOCK _(distractedly, without turning around):_ No, you can have the rest.

_Mrs Hudson makes a revolted face, sighs in exasperation and exits with the half-empty plate in her hand._

_* * *_

**_Greg Lestrade's Office at New Scotland Yard._ ** _Sally Donovan is sitting at the computer, studying data on a spreadsheet. Lestrade is pacing up and down like a caged animal, a deep frown creasing his brow, his phone in his hand, clutching it with far more force than necessary._

SALLY _(with her eyes on the screen):_ I really think we should talk again to the witnesses from the two cases before this one, and try and get a more detailed description of the women the victims bought the pills from. They were all female dealers, the last times.

LESTRADE _(running his hand through his hair):_ What?

SALLY: I said the dealers in the last three cases were all girls. Maybe they were the same girl. There's a lot you can do with make-up, hairstyles, sunglasses, even wigs.

LESTRADE _(even more distractedly):_ What?

_Sally leans back in her chair and sighs._

SALLY: I'm trying to expound the theory that at least those latest pills were all sold by one and the same person, and if we can get our hands on her – Greg, are you even listening?

LESTRADE: Yeah. No. Sorry.

_With a visible effort, he stops pacing and turns towards his sergeant._

SALLY _(impatiently):_ Please stop worrying about him. He's just winding you up.

LESTRADE: I really don't think so, Sally.

SALLY: He does that, remember?

_A pained expression passes across Lestrade's face._

LESTRADE: I'm not even sure he meant to, that time.

SALLY: Does it sound any better this time? _(Quoting)_ “Am going after someone.” I mean, “someone”? Why not just put in the name?

LESTRADE: Maybe because he didn't know it?

SALLY: Well, then a general description would have been helpful. _(Aping Sherlock spouting deductions at rapid fire speed)_ “An elderly bald man in an ill-fitting blue suit who seems to be walking his dog down Rossmore Road right now but who is in fact on a reconnaissance for his next break-in”, or -

LESTRADE: No time to type that?

SALLY: He types even faster than he talks.

LESTRADE _(holding up his phone, now quoting in his turn):_ “If I don't manage to get back to you within an hour, feel free to track my phone.” If that isn't the Sherlock Holmes equivalent of a strangled cry for help, Sally, I don't know what is.

SALLY _(exasperated):_ The Sherlock Holmes equivalent of a strangled cry for help would be the exact GPS coordinates of the location where he is being strangled, not an invitation to play hide and seek with the help of British Telecom as if we had nothing else to do on a Sunday afternoon.

LESTRADE _(unconvinced):_ I wish you were right.

_He turns away to look out of the window of his office, at the nondescript building opposite, deep in thought. Sally shakes her head and proceeds to print off the spreadsheet. She takes the pages out of the printer and highlights some lines on it with a bright yellow marker._

SALLY: Here. How about you take the – _(She looks up.)_ Greg, really. Since when do I have to organise you into doing your job?

_At that moment, the phone in Lestrade's jacket rings. He pulls it out hastily and checks the caller ID. But the moment he raises it to his ear, it stops ringing. He takes it down again, looks at it with a frown, even gives it a little shake, but there is nothing more. He stares at it in disbelief for a moment, then raises his head to look very meaningfully across at Sally. Sally sighs in resignation._

SALLY: Alright. Official channels, or Mycroft straight away?

LESTRADE _(in a very tense voice):_ Mycroft. And quickly.

SALLY: He'll have your head if this is another hoax.

LESTRADE: He'll have my head if it isn't and I haven't let him know.

* * *

 **_Mycroft's office._ ** _Beneath the portrait of Her Majesty, Anthea is sitting at the desk in front of a laptop. Mycroft stands behind her chair, leaning across to look at the screen. On the telephone on the desk, a green light is blinking. Greg Lestrade's voice fills the room, slightly distorted by the loudspeaker._

LESTRADE'S VOICE _(via phone):_ Kew Gardens?

MYCROFT: _Outside_ Kew Gardens. Just outside Brentford Gate, right by the river. _(He frowns slightly as his eyes travel down the screen of the laptop.)_ Took a cab from Baker Street to the car-park there – the stops at the red traffic lights are quite distinct in the GPS coordinates, as is that perpetually congested stretch of the Westway. _(He points, and Anthea nods.)_ From the car-park, he must have walked on down the riverside path for another hundred yards or so. The coordinates change much more slowly for that last part of the way, to walking speed. Besides, that path is closed off to motorised traffic.

LESTRADE'S VOICE: What's the last activity on his phone that you can see?

_Anthea types on the computer._

ANTHEA: At 1:44:06, a text message to you. Then nothing until 2:18:37. There's an incoming text message then, from 07924883 -

MYCROFT: Molly Hooper.

LESTRADE'S VOICE: What does it say?

ANTHEA: Just a second. _(She types again, and reads from the screen):_ “I'm sorry.”

LESTRADE'S VOICE: Why, what's wrong?

ANTHEA _(patiently):_ No, that's the message. It says “I'm sorry.”

LESTRADE'S VOICE: Oh. Well, that's something Molly Hooper says a lot.

ANTHEA: And then at 2:20:04, there's that aborted call to you, six seconds of it. Then it went out altogether.

LESTRADE'S VOICE _(surprised):_ Including the GPS locator?

ANTHEA: Yes, including that. It stopped transmitting completely at that point, all of a sudden.

MYCROFT _(his eyes still on the screen):_ And there's something very strange going on with the coordinates during those last seconds. They change again.

ANTHEA: Not significantly, sir.

MYCROFT: Oh yes, very significantly. To the north-west, and to a distance of approximately twenty-two yards over the course of only three seconds. And -

LESTRADE'S VOICE _(cottoning on): -_ to the north-west from the riverbank outside Brentford Gate is nothing but a lot of water. _(In a tone of deep disquiet, realising the implications)_ Jesus Christ.

 * * *

 **_The Thames. A riverside path on the south bank of the river, just beyond Brentford Gate into Kew Gardens._ ** _Sherlock is standing off the path, in the grass right on the edge of the bank, his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking down at the water. The water level is high, swollen by recent rain, and the lead-coloured river flows rather quickly._ _There is very little traffic on the water, no rowers and no pleasure boats at this time of the year, and even on the opposite bank, in the Brentford Docks, not much activity on a Sunday afternoon. The riverside walk itself is completely deserted. Then a minivan with the Kew Gardens logo drives up, slowly and carefully on the gravel surface of the narrow path. Sherlock turns to look. The van stops where Sherlock is standing, and three men get out. Two of the men are in the dark green overalls and heavy boots of the Kew gardeners. One is a young man with a knitted woollen hat on; the other is middle-aged and slightly overweight, with a scruffy beard. The third man is not in working clothes, but in a plain dark jacket, jeans and wellingtons. His head is uncovered, revealing slightly overgrown dark hair and a friendly, open face, if it wasn't for his rather tense expression. The three of them would indeed give a very convincing impression of a landscape architect with two subordinates on their way to some field work in the park, if they didn't happen to be the boy on the bike, one of the men who was responsible for positioning the airbag, and the pretend doctor with the stethoscope, all of whom we saw assisting in the magic trick of Sherlock jumping from the roof of Barts, three years earlier. Sherlock obviously recognises them, too. His eyes narrow slightly as they approach him, the once-doctor-now-architect in front, the two pseudo-gardeners following, all three grave and unsmiling. They are only a few paces apart, right at the edge of the water, when Sherlock addresses the man in front._

SHERLOCK: Hello, Dimitri. How's your daughter?

_The man eyes Sherlock suspiciously. There is a short pause. When he replies, he speaks fluent English, but with a Slavic accent, and there is a rather bitter undertone in his voice._

DIMITRI: Much better, now that we could afford the third surgery.

SHERLOCK: Don't feel the need to apologise. I know I've been a negligent employer lately. _(He turns towards the other two men, who have taken up their station between Sherlock and the path.)_ But a man must eat, as they say. Am I right?

_The older man gives a shrug of indifference. The younger man looks down, trying to hide his slightly guilty expression._

DIMITRI: You're not surprised to see us here?

SHERLOCK: Not really. I know you can all do with the money.

DIMITRI _(jerking his head back towards their van):_ Are you coming then?

SHERLOCK: Why would I?

_Dimitri chuckles briefly._

DIMITRI: Someone would be very disappointed if you didn't.

SHERLOCK: I'm sure he would.

DIMITRI: Not “he”.

SHERLOCK: What?

_Dimitri nods across the water. Sherlock turns to look. On the opposite bank, a solitary figure has appeared on the walkway across the lock of the Brentford Marina. It is a small, ponytailed woman in a grey jacket and dark red trousers. She is too far away to make out the expression on her face, but all the same, she is instantly recognisable as she stands looking across the the river at the four men on the grassy bank. Sherlock stares at her. His lips part, as if in silent protest, then close again. After a moment, she puts a hand into the pocket of her jacket, and a second later, Sherlock’s phone buzzes a text alert. As if in slow motion, he takes his phone out of his coat pocket and looks down at the screen. The message he has just received consists of only two words:_

I’m sorry.

_Sherlock raises his head and stares across the water again, at the still unmoving figure, like a man in a dream. In the silence, from behind his back, there is the click of the safety catch of a gun being released. The older of the pseudo-gardeners has produced a handgun from the pocket of his overalls and, holding it firmly in both hands, is pointing it at Sherlock's head._

DIMITRI _(holding out his hand):_ And I’ll have that phone now, please.

_With an effort, Sherlock tears his gaze away from the figure on the other side of the river, and turns back to face Dimitri. He swallows, and takes a moment to find his voice again, but when he does, it sounds as calm and confident as ever._

SHERLOCK: So it can take an innocent walk in the park, while I'm elsewhere?

DIMITRI: Of course. And exchange a few more innocent messages with hers, too, so nobody starts worrying about you too soon.

SHERLOCK: My phone is PIN locked. It’s a random sequence of numbers, and I change it daily.

DIMITRI: And today it’s 7425. Now hand it over.

_Sherlock smiles a humourless smile, punches a single key on his phone, and quick as lightning raises his hand and flings it far out into the river. It sails through the air for a couple of seconds, then sinks down and disappears into the dark water. Dimitri has taken a hasty step forward as if to intervene, but he is far too late._

DIMITRI _(furiously):_ You –

_Sherlock shrugs._

SHERLOCK: It fancied a swim, not a walk. Sorry.

_And then he makes a strange little sound, more of indignation than of surprise, as the man behind him whacks the handle of his gun against the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s knees buckle, and his vision goes blurry. Then there is a second impact, the grassy ground is flying upwards to meet him, and everything goes dark._

_* * *_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Darkness._ ** _The sound of footsteps, coming closer, passing by, then stopping. The creak of a chair. A door opening and closing. The grind of a cigarette lighter, two, three attempts until a flame appears. And the low, muffled groan of someone awakening to the sensation of discomfort and pain. A man's voice speaks up in a lazy drawl._

MAN'S VOICE: Oh, finally. I was jus' gonna get out the cold water bucket.

_Abruptly, the darkness recedes, and we get a view of the legs and feet of a man, sprawled negligently in a desk chair, feet in trainers tapping impatiently on a cheap lino office floor._

MAN'S VOICE _(in a mock-gentle, coaxing tone):_ Yeah, come on. Look up. I'm up here. An' it's really me.

_The man leans forward in his chair, and his upper body and face come into view. It's Sherlock's coat, but in it, none other than Bill Wiggins, a lit cigarette in his hand, looking very contentedly at something or someone on the floor at his feet._

BILL: But you knew that already, didn’t you? Clever boy.

_The someone he is looking at is Sherlock himself, minus his coat and looking decidedly the worse for wear otherwise, too. He is lying on his side on the floor, the hair on the upturned side of his forehead clotted with mingled dirt and blood. His arms have been slung around one of the metal legs of the heavy office desk Bill is sitting at, and his hands are handcuffed together, one hand on either side of the desk leg. He is blinking in an effort to keep his eyes open and get his bearings, and finally manages to focus his gaze on Bill's face. Bill takes a pull at his cigarette and exhales a plume of smoke._

BILL: Golden rule, Holmes. Never trust another junkie. Forgotten that?

_Sherlock frowns, as if trying to remember something._

BILL: Yeah, an' some people say, never trust a woman either.

_Sherlock blinks again and shakes his head a little as if to dispel the fog in it. Then he exhales audibly, memory returning. He grimaces. When he speaks, his voice is low and hoarse._

SHERLOCK: Molly.

MOLLY _(off-screen, from behind Sherlock's back):_ I'm here.

_Sherlock turns over as far as his tethered hands allow, the chain that links the cuffs clanking against the desk leg. On a chair against the wall opposite Bill, Molly Hooper is sitting, very stiffly, still in her grey jacket and red trousers, hugging herself as if she is cold, her face very pale. Her eyes meet Sherlock's, but only for a short moment. Then she raises them to face Bill across the room._

MOLLY _(in a surprisingly firm voice):_ And just for the record, I'm here against my will.

BILL _(sarcastically):_ Noted.

_Sherlock looks Molly up and down carefully, his gaze resting on her hands and on her neck and face in particular, as if looking for physical signs of violence or coercion, but finding none. Their eyes meet again, and a ghost of a rueful smile appears on Molly's lips._

BILL: Not a scratch on her, don't you worry. _(Ominously.)_ Yet. _(Sherlock turns back to face Bill again, frowning.)_ But then, _she_ came along quietly.

MOLLY _(to Bill, accusingly):_ You _lied_ to me. You said Sherlock sent you, and he needed my help.

BILL _(with a shrug):_ I wasn't lyin', I was anticipatin'. _(As usual, every of his words that has three or more syllables comes out with a hint of a sneer. To Sherlock)_ Don't tell me it isn't nice to know that someone here'd jus' love to hold your hand an' cry a bit what a mess you are.

_Molly presses her lips firmly together, as if determined not to give Bill that satisfaction._

BILL: Right. _(He rises from his chair and nudges Sherlock in the ribs with his foot.)_ Up you get.

_Holding his cigarette between his lips, he hooks his hands under the top of the heavy desk and lifts the front section of it up a few inches. Sherlock rolls over, slides his handcuffed hands out from under the desk leg, and pushes himself up into a sitting position. Bill points towards the wall, next to Molly's chair._

BILL: Over there.

_Sherlock obeys, moving backwards until he is sitting with his back propped against the wall. He moves a little stiffly, not yet back in full command of his body. But his eyes are clear and alert now, darting around the room, taking in data and assessing the situation. They are in a small office, by the scraggly windswept branches of a tree outside the single window on an upper floor of a building. The two pretend gardeners are present, too, the younger leaning against the inside of the door, arms crossed defiantly but still markedly avoiding Sherlock's eyes, the older one by the window, leaning against the radiator that has been installed under it, smoking like Bill and looking completely unconcerned. Dimitri is nowhere to be seen. The office is sparsely furnished – the desk and desk chair, Molly's chair, and apart from that, no furniture but a low metal filing cabinet with two drawers next to the desk, and a few plain cardboard boxes stacked in a corner._

BILL _(noticing Sherlock's eyes travelling around the room):_ An' stop deducin'. It doesn't matter where we are.

SHERLOCK _(raising his eyebrows):_ Number 341 Vermissa Road, Feltham. Hartfield's, importers of Bohemian glass. I know those boxes, Bill. _(He nods towards the cardboard boxes in the corner.)_ Used to buy from them, too. Excellent laboratory equipment. Oh, and free shipping for _your_ raw materials, too, I suppose, straight from the Czech republic's top-of-the-range suppliers. Very handy.

BILL: Congratulations. Brain workin' again now, is it?

SHERLOCK: Partially, at least.

_He gently feels the tear in his scalp with his fingers, looks at the dirt on them with a frown, then turns his head to give the young man by the door a reproachful look. The young man shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other._

BILL: That's good. 'Cause I need you to make a phone call.

_Sherlock's lip curls._

SHERLOCK: Can't. My phone drowned. Remind me to dock that off your pay, Bill.

BILL: I don't need your stinkin' pay, Holmes. Never did.

SHERLOCK: Yeah, nor any of my scones. I forgot. You're your own boss now, and doing exceedingly well, I hear. _(He shifts on the floor as if to find a more comfortable position, and winces.)_ Except for the unpleasant side effect of one or the other little girl snuffing it, now and then.

BILL: An' one or the other nosy consultin' detective gettin' in the way. _(He laughs humourlessly.)_ Though I shouldn’t be ungrateful. You taught me a lot o’ things, Holmes.

SHERLOCK: Like what?

BILL: Usin’ me eyes. Readin’ a PIN code upside down from five feet away, an’ workin’ out that even really clever people are lazy, an’ go back to the same numbers on a rota.

SHERLOCK _(generously):_ Yeah, that was a good one.

BILL: Not sure 'bout really clever any more, though.

SHERLOCK: Why not?

BILL: 'Cause your phone drowned.

_Sherlock raises his eyebrows questioningly. Bill sits down again in his chair and puts his feet up on the low filing cabinet._

BILL: You could’ve passed a quiet afternoon in here, you know, all on your own, an' I'm sure some time tonight the watchman what makes the rounds after nightfall would've found you, too, an' no great harm done. Not gonna happen now, though. 'Cause you never jus' do what you're told, do you? Always meddlin'. Always bein' dramatic. Sinkin' your signal book so it won't fall into the enemy's hands. Very noble. ( _He takes another drag of his cigarette and flicks the ash onto the floor.)_ 'Xcept Dimitri saw exactly what you did jus' before that. An' now that they know at your headquarters that somethin' must've gone wrong, we need a proper diversion. So what you're gonna do now is borrow _my_ phone an' tell them that you're on a hot trail, thanks to me, an' that if they drive up to No. 84 Westpole Ave on the Oakwood Industrial Estate up in Enfield by nightfall, they're gonna be handed Boss McGinty, all his lab equipment, his remainin' stores an' the guy he's sellin' out to all on a silver platter. 'Cause that's what I'm doin' tonight, 'xcept somewhere else, o' course.

SHERLOCK: Selling out, Bill? Why?

BILL: Your fault. Got well again too soon. Couldn't take the risk any longer, with you back on your feet.

SHERLOCK: Not that your secret lab was set up in John's disused bedroom or anything.

BILL: Sure it wasn't?

_Sherlock smiles contemptuously._

SHERLOCK: But even so, you're one day late. Ironic, isn't it?

BILL: Nope. _You're_ one day early. Ironic, isn't it?

_A pause. Bill smokes. Sherlock shifts again, turns his wrists this way and that and flexes his fingers experimentally, as if to test his current range of motion. He frowns at the handcuffs._

SHERLOCK: Are those mine?

BILL: 'Course.

SHERLOCK: You realise that it would take me about three seconds to pick that lock?

BILL: An' five with any other. Given somethin' to pick it with. An' a hand what can still do pickin'. ( _He chuckles unpleasantly, throws the stub of his cigarette onto the floor, grinds it under his shoe and gets up.)_ Right. You gonna make that phone call?

SHERLOCK _(disdainfully):_ Of course not.

BILL: Wanna know what happens if you don't?

SHERLOCK _(jerking his head at the young man by the door):_ Alec's going to kick me in the head a couple more times?

BILL _(with a derisive snort):_ Bah. Much better. I'll show you.

_With a bit of a flourish, he pulls out the top drawer of the metal filing cabinet. It is half-filled with hanging files. They quiver slightly as Bill pulls the drawer out as far as it will go. He looks expectantly at Sherlock._

SHERLOCK: So?

BILL _(savouring the moment):_ So you imagine what happens if I kick that shut again, with your left hand trapped in the gap.

_Molly, who has so far followed their exchange attentively but with an unmoving face, inhales sharply, looking both revolted and enraged._

BILL: Or even better, one finger at a time. So you get to _reconsider,_ in between.

ALEC: I think he's right-handed, boss.

BILL _(smugly):_ An' he likes to play his fiddle. _(With a grimace of mock-regret)_ Will never sound the same again. Shame.

MOLLY _(to Bill, furiously):_ God, you -

_Bill chuckles. Molly looks daggers at him, her face flushed with anger, then down at Sherlock next to her, searching for his eyes. They meet hers, perfectly calm and unshaken. He even smiles a little._

SHERLOCK: He's not going to do that.

BILL _(to Sherlock):_ Oh, good! You've worked out that you get to choose, have you? 'Cause if you don't like the idea, you jus' keep sittin' there an' watch a different show.

MOLLY _(sharply):_ What different show?

_Bill lets his eyes travel slowly upwards from Sherlock's face to hers. He smiles a very disquieting smile._

BILL: You. An' me.

_With a jerk, Molly sits bolt upright, her eyes wide._

MOLLY _(aghast):_ What?

BILL: Yeah, you an' me. _(To Sherlock)_ I told you I'd get all your things an' your job one day. I've already got your coat, an' now I think I'm gettin' your girl as well. _(He looks Molly up and down offensively.)_ Though I usually prefer busty blondes. _(To Sherlock)_ Drew the short straw with John, did you? Too bad. _(Struck by a sudden new thought.)_ Where is _he_ , by the way? Oh, I forgot. Used to a better class o’ criminal. _(He laughs again, then turns back to Molly.)_ But I guess this one's got more 'an meets the eye, too. _(Derisively, eyeing Molly's layers of warm winter clothing)_ Underneath all that _fabric._

_Molly turns her head to look at Sherlock again as if for support. There are tears in her eyes, and she intertwines her fingers in her lap to stop them trembling. Bill leans forward and puts his hand under Molly’s chin to raise her face to him._

BILL: Oh, come on, luv. Don't cry. You can squeeze your pretty eyes shut an' pretend I'm him, if you like. D'you want me to keep the coat on, too?

_Molly jerks her head away defiantly._

MOLLY: You _dirty -_

BILL: Nah, don't do that wildcat thing, now. I know _he_ likes it, smack smack smack, left, right, left, but it's not what turns _me_ on.

_Molly really is crying now, and angrily wipes the tears from her cheeks._

SHERLOCK _(in an unexpectedly calm, matter-of-fact tone):_ Bill. Tell me something.

BILL _(impatiently):_ What?

SHERLOCK: I would like to know what exactly it is that you're getting out of this, except for a ridiculous amount of money and a life on the run.

_Bill takes a step back and crosses his arms._

BILL: Loads o' people would think a few million quid worth a life on the run, Holmes.

SHERLOCK: Yes, but it doesn't justify that level of vindictiveness. This isn't just about getting away with the money, is it?

_Bill laughs humourlessly._

BILL: I as good as told you. Last night. No, I s'pose you wouldn't bother to remember the name. _(He takes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and lights another cigarette.)_ OK, story time. But jus' for one more of these.

_Sherlock and Molly exchange a look, Molly looking slightly relieved at the respite they seem to be getting, Sherlock intrigued, as if he genuinely can't wait to find out._

BILL: Right. It's a story 'bout a long, stinkin' corridor in a cop shop somewhere in North London, stuffed to overflowin' with all manner of hollow-eyed, scraggly junkies, all o' them in a bad way – some jus' comin' down, some gettin' antsy 'bout their next shot, an' some right pitiful bastards all sweaty an' itchy already, 'cause they'd been there for hours an' hours an' hours, sittin' on the benches an' on the floor, too, 'cause there wasn't enough room, an' the only chair oh so generously given to the girl with the huge bump who was seven months gone but in handcuffs all the same, like the rest o' them.

_Sherlock leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes._

BILL: There were more 'an a dozen o’ them, all picked up at the same house when the coppers came raidin' an' went all ballistic when they found that one o' the dead ones hadn't pegged out quietly in his corner but had his head smashed in, blood an' brains everywhere, such a mess, an' he still warm an' the blokes what did it still in the house for all the coppers knew. So they're hell-bent on findin' out who it was, an' they're not lettin' anyone go til they do, right?

_A pause. Bill smokes._

BILL _(his eyes fixed on Sherlock):_ An' there was one o' them junkies, sittin' on the floor there an' feelin' rotten, jus' like you now.

_Sherlock opens his eyes and meets Bill's gaze steadily._

BILL: He was a tall, thin guy, in a pea jacket what looked three sizes too big, unwashed hair to here – _(He indicates shoulder-length hair with his cigarette-free hand) –_ in a messy ponytail, an' those few who ever talked to him or he to them knew him by the name o' Birdy Edwards.

_Sherlock smiles. Bill, seeing it, takes another deep pull at his cigarette. His fingers have begun to twitch slightly._

BILL: An' when his turn came, an' the coppers were pullin' him to his feet to get his fingerprints an' photo an' statement an' all, he said somethin' like “Why don't you just stop wasting my time” - he had that snobbish way o' speakin' even back then - “and go and interrogate the actual murderers straight away?” They laughed at him, the coppers, but there was one, a sergeant I think, who went “Alright, son, then tell us who the murderers are”, an' Birdy Edwards jus' turned an' pointed, one, two, three, four. Number four was the girl with the bump. “You saw it happen?” the sergeant said, surprised, an' Birdy said, “No, I've deduced it.”

_Molly turns her head sharply to look at Sherlock. He is still smiling. Bill walks back to his desk chair and flings himself down into it, the fingers of his cigarette-free hand picking at the plastic cover of the armrest that is beginning to peel off._

BILL: An' then he went on to tell them all sorts o' crazy stuff 'bout how the traces o' rust on number one's palms should be matched with the crowbar what the poor bugger got his head smashed in with, an' about how number two had those tiny splatters o' blood on the rim o' his trousers, an' about how number three's boots were steel-capped an' that was jus' exactly the sound Birdy'd heard from upstairs, steel-capped boots connectin' with a man's ribs, an' all sorts o' stuff like that. An' when they asked, what about the girl, he said “She egged them on.”

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ It was true, Bill.

BILL _(aggressively):_ All of it was true, wasn't it? 'Course it was. _(He leans forward in his chair, his face a grimace of hatred.)_ An' Birdy Edwards got a clap on the shoulder an' a free coffee for it from the coppers, an' went scot-free in the mornin' when he'd told them all there was to tell, the fuckin' snitch. But those four got hauled off on a murder charge, an' within a year, they were all dead.

_He jumps up from his chair again. Molly gives a violent start, but Bill is not even looking at her. He starts pacing up and down agitatedly in the narrow space between the desk and the window, ticking off the numbers on his fingers._

BILL: Number one, overdosed in jail. Number two, cirrhosis. Number three, AIDS. An' the girl had the kid in a prison hospital, an' it was taken away from her an' put straight into care an’ she into rehab, an’ there she jumped out a window. _(He turns back sharply to face Sherlock again.)_ Remember the name, now?

SHERLOCK: Sue Porlock.

BILL _(sarcastically):_ Spot on. _(He resumes his pacing.)_ Anyways, she jumped, but not before she'd had a visitor, back at the hospital, an' told him the story of Birdy Edwards. An’ that visitor memorised every word of it, jus' on the off chance he'd ever meet the bloke, an' got to pay him back one day. He didn't, o' course, not for years an' years. 'Cause Birdy Edwards jus' disappeared after that, didn't he? He'd burned his bridges alright, that night. If looks could kill, he'd’ve dropped dead on the spot, right there in the cop shop. But then, most o' the folks from that house jus’ thought he'd gone for good with that posh trick o' his what used to pick him up in his big black car. It was a running joke with 'em, how good Birdy must be for that bloke to keep comin' for him, an' jus' for him, even when he was too fucked up to stand upright, an' how stupid he must be to be back on the streets next day, every time, when that bloke'd happily've kept him as a pet. Now I know who _that_ must've been, I could laugh. _(In a sudden outburst, shouting at the wall in front of him)_ If there was anythin' laughable 'bout the whole business!

_He throws the stub of his cigarette down and stomps on it with unnecessary vehemence, his face flushed a deep dark red. Then he wipes his nose with the back of his hand and looks up again, first at Molly, then at Sherlock, and when he speaks, his voice is suddenly low and calculating again, no longer agitated._

BILL _(to Sherlock):_ An' now excuse me while I have a bit o' fun with _your_ girlfriend. It's time we got somewhere. Come on, luv.

_He reaches out and grabs Molly by the arm, not brutally, but still rather ungently, to pull her up from her chair. Molly gasps in alarm._

SHERLOCK _(as calmly as before):_ Bill, you said _I_ get to choose.

_He gathers his legs under him, pushes himself to his feet, steadies himself with his back against the wall for a moment, then walks over to the still open filing cabinet. Bill lets go of Molly and turns to look._

BILL: What'cha doin'?

SHERLOCK: Making a choice.

_With an expression of supreme contempt on his face, his eyes never leaving Bill's, he literally slams his left hand into the opening of the metal drawer, his fingers disappearing around the upper edge of the cabinet. The force of the impact dislodges a couple of the hanging files. With a rustling noise, they slump down messily into the bottom of the drawer. There is a silence, so deep that the hum of the building's air conditioning system can be heard. From outside the window, the sounds of a car engine and of a car door slamming shut drift up towards them. Molly and Bill both stare at Sherlock, Molly with her eyes wide in disbelief. Then Bill's expression changes to a lop-sided grin, and he makes a low whistling sound._

BILL: Too bad you don’t get points for chivalry, Holmes. You get points for makin’ a phone call, nothin’ else.

SHERLOCK: And you get no points whatsoever, Bill. Your plan is flawed from beginning to end. _(He steadies himself against the cabinet with his right hand and runs his left tentatively along the upper inner edge, as far as the handcuffs allow.)_ You haven’t even looked in here, have you? I can feel a razor-sharp metal edge there, approximately half an inch deep. So if you were to kick this drawer shut with my hand in it, the impact would certainly sever my fingers completely, rather than just break them. Which would of course result in the pain you seem to be so keen on inflicting on me, but also in an impressive blood loss, due to reach life-threatening dimensions within an hour or so if left uncared for. I need not point out to you that as a living hostage, even damaged, I might still be of use to you, but as a corpse, I will become a massive liability. I can't seriously advise you to take that risk. _(He smiles wryly.)_ Besides, think of the mess.

_Bill seems unsettled for a moment. Then he jerks his head at Molly._

BILL: You realise you're telling me to do her after all?

SHERLOCK: And you don't realise that you'll be having visitors shortly. I doubt you'd even be half-way undressed before they’re up here.

BILL: What?

_There is a faint but audible sound from somewhere downstairs in the building, a short series of small metallic clicks, as of someone trying to manipulate a lock on a door. Bill exchanges an alarmed look with his two accomplices. The older man by the window springs to life._

OLDER MAN: I'll go and check.

_He exists the room hurriedly, and a moment later can be heard running down a flight of stairs._

SHERLOCK _(to Bill):_ And I'm sure you'll find a long night of negotiations with the police just as tedious and uninviting as I would. So, are you going to be sensible and give yourself up now, or do I have to put you on a countdown?

_Bill looks down at Sherlock's left hand, still in the open drawer, and snorts derisively._

BILL: Not even you're as strong as that, Holmes.

SHERLOCK: Let's find out.

_And before anyone can stop him, he slams the open drawer shut with a jerk of his knee. Its edge connects with his left fingers – all except the thumb - with a sickening, crunching noise, and then with a dull thump the drawer closes almost completely, firmly trapping Sherlock’s hand – or what is left of it - in the slit. Bill gasps. Molly screams._

BILL _(shouting):_ Are you fuckin' _insane?_

_Sherlock remains on his feet for a second or two longer, looking down at his mangled hand with a frown as if he is wondering what he should be feeling now. Then reaction catches up with him, and he slumps down onto his knees and, clinging desperately to the edge of the cabinet with his good right hand, vomits violently onto the floor at Bill's feet. In the blink of an eye, Molly is up from her chair and by his side._

MOLLY _(sobbing frantically):_ You're out of your mind ... out of your mind ...

_She leans over him and tries to yank the drawer open again to free the injured hand._

MOLLY _:_ Get it out!

_Sherlock, pale and sweating heavily now, grits his teeth, but doesn't move._

SHERLOCK: No … leave it …

MOLLY: God, let me _help!_

SHERLOCK: Keeps the ruptured … blood vessels … compressed … slows the … bleeding …

_He grimaces with pain. His entire body seizes up, and he retches again, but there is nothing more to come out. His head slumps forward onto the top of the cabinet, and he closes his eyes. Tears well out from under his eyelids._

MOLLY: Alright. You’re right. Keep still, just keep still.

_She hurriedly wipes her own tears away and looks around. Bill, and Alec by the door, are looking on wide-eyed, stunned by the enormity of what they have just witnessed. Bill has actually turned almost as pale as Sherlock himself._

MOLLY: Something I can use for a tourniquet. Quickly!

_The two men look at each other, both of them at a loss._

SHERLOCK _(in a strained whisper, eyes still closed):_ My belt.

_He screws up his face and bites his lip as if to stop himself crying out loud in his agony._

MOLLY: Right.

_She takes a deep breath to calm herself, then puts her arms around Sherlock's body and begins to work his belt out of its loops. He shifts a little, in a feeble attempt to make it easier for her, and sobs at the pain the movement causes him._

MOLLY _(over her shoulder, to Alec, in an authoritative voice):_ Come here, hold him up.

_Alec, after only the shortest moment of hesitation, walks over to Molly's side, looking rather shaken, but clearly willing to help._

MOLLY: Put your arms around his chest and keep him upright, but don't move him til I say so. And look away when it comes out, there may not be much left.

_Alec swallows, but does as he is told, locking strong arms around Sherlock's upper body, then glances at Molly as if for further orders. He is clearly relieved that someone is taking charge of the situation. Molly keeps loosening the belt, frowning in concentration. A moment later, the belt comes free._

MOLLY _(impatiently):_ And Bill, you take those sodding things off him _now!_

_Bill hasn't moved. He is still staring at Sherlock's hand trapped in the drawer, and at the thin trails of blood that have begun to seep out over the edge and down Sherlock's wrist, staining the handcuffs. He gulps. Molly fingers Sherlock's forearm for the pressure point in its crook, slings the belt around it and pulls it tight._

MOLLY _(almost shouting now):_ Bill! How much worse are you going to make this?

BILL: How long do we have?

MOLLY: What?

BILL: Til he, you know -

MOLLY _(furiously):_ What? Passes out? Dies?

_There is a loud noise of from downstairs, as of a door bursting open, a muffled shout of alarm, the sound of a short scuffle, then the footsteps of a number of people rushing into the building._

SHERLOCK _(through clenched teeth):_ No time at all, Bill.

_Bill stands undecided for a moment. Then he digs his hand into his pocket, pulls out his flick knife and snaps the blade open. His eyes flash dangerously._

BILL: Alright. Let's get going.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**_A view of the entrance hall of the same building._ ** _The glass entrance door has been forced open, and several uniformed policemen have spread out to search the ground floor rooms. Two more are keeping guard on the older of Bill's two helpers, who looks disgruntled but resigned. There is a flight of stone stairs with a metal bannister along the right hand wall of the hall, leading to the upper floors, and Greg Lestrade stands at the foot of the stairs, his head to one side, listening for any signs of life from upstairs. Sally Donovan walks up to him._

SALLY: Ground floor's clear, sir.

LESTRADE _(peering up into the darkness at the head of the stairs):_ Right, then.

_He begins to ascend the stairs, waving to Sally and two officers to follow him. When they are half-way up, there is the sound from upstairs of a door opening and closing again, footsteps, something heavy being dragged along on the floor, muffled cursing, and a subdued groan. Lestrade and his officers freeze. Then, just as Lestrade opens his mouth to call up the stairs, Sherlock's deep voice comes floating down out of the darkness, sounding strained and shaky, but clearly recognisable._

SHERLOCK'S VOICE: Greg?

_Lestrade and Sally exchange a look._

LESTRADE _(calmly):_ Yes?

SHERLOCK'S VOICE: We're up here.

LESTRADE: Can I come up?

_There is a short pause before Sherlock replies._

SHERLOCK'S VOICE: Just you. No-one else.

_Lestrade and Sally exchange another look. Sally shakes her head, looking worried, but Lestrade braces himself and gestures to her and the other officers to stay behind. He ascends the remaining stairs with firm, clearly audible steps. On the dark first floor, he looks around to get his bearings. There are several closed doors along a corridor, and no signs of movement anywhere._

LESTRADE: Sherlock?

SHERLOCK’S VOICE: Up here.

_Lestrade turns sharply on his heel. The voice is coming from even further up. A second flight of stairs leads to the top floor of the building, into even deeper darkness. Lestrade walks over to it._

SHERLOCK’S VOICE: You were right, you know.

LESTRADE _(with a frown):_ Right, how?

_He squints up into the darkness above him, and there seems to be a hint of movement at the top of the stairs._

SHERLOCK’S VOICE: It is a personal vendetta. It’s just that … _(a pause for breath)_ … the roles got reversed a bit.

_With a flicker, the lights in the stairwell come on, a sudden bright glare, revealing a group of four at the top of the stairs to Lestrade’s view – Sherlock, on his knees, still handcuffed, pale and breathing heavily, good right hand clutching the left - fingers smeared with blood and some looking strangely crooked, but miraculously, all still attached to the hand. Right behind him, holding Sherlock’s head up by his hair and the knife at Sherlock’s throat, Bill Wiggins, bloodshot eyes fixed on Lestrade and a broad, almost demented grin on his face. Next to him, Alec, and then Molly, the former with his hand on Molly’s upper arm to stop her escaping, but the latter utterly still. Lestrade takes in the situation with a single glance, outwardly calm, but his fists opening and closing at his sides betray his tension. His eyes travel from Sherlock’s injured hand to the knife at his throat and then to Bill Wiggins’ face, trying to make sense of it all._

SHERLOCK: Remember Sue Porlock, Greg?

LESTRADE _(with a frown):_ Yeah, sure. What’s she got to do with – _(His eyes fix on Bill Wiggins again.)_ Bloody hell. Listen, Wiggins, I don't care what -

BILL _(with a sneer_ ): Yeah, I know your handbook. But you’re on the wrong page. You don’t get to do the “we have all night” thing. The chapter you want now is called deadlock, no pun intended, and there’s no solution, 'xcept give in, an’ quickly, ‘cause this one’s lost a lot o’ blood already an’ I’m not sure how much he’s got left. So chuck out the handbook and do exactly what I tell you now. Unless you think puns are fun, o’ course.

_Lestrade grimaces, undecided what to do._

SHERLOCK _(with a visible effort):_ Bill – I think you’re the one who’s ... on the wrong page.

BILL: An’ you jus’ shut it, now.

_He tightens his hold on Sherlock for emphasis._

SHERLOCK _(a tone of despair stealing into his voice):_ No, just one thing, please. _(He swallows hard.)_ I really wouldn’t – wouldn’t like to die for the wrong reason, and … and I think you should know that -

_Bill yanks Sherlock’s head back by his hair so their eyes meet._

BILL: What the _fuck_ are you talkin’ about?

SHERLOCK _(in a rush, but nothing left now of the breathless, pitiable pleading of only a moment before): -_ Sue Porlock is alive and happy in a mother-and-child institution up in Scotland, but she knew she couldn't kick the habit and raise her kid herself unless she got away from her junkie ex, so she -

BILL: _What?_

_His grip on Sherlock’s hair and on his knife slackens, only for the shortest of moments, but it is enough. Sherlock’s tethered hands jump up and seize Bill’s wrist, and with a quick twisting motion Bill’s arm is yanked sideways. His elbow slams into the metal railing of the bannister with a resounding bang, Bill lets out a yell of pain, and his knife goes flying and lands on the floor behind them with a clatter. Sherlock ducks under Bill’s arm, makes a dive for the weapon, and misses it by mere inches. A second later, before Sherlock can get his hands on it, Bill’s foot comes down on Sherlock’s injured left hand with the whole force of his weight behind it, crushing it mercilessly and making Sherlock scream with the pain of it. But just as Bill stoops down to make a grab for the knife himself, the knife comes up to meet him. There is a moment of utter silence as Bill freezes, staring at the handle of his knife sticking out of his thigh, straight through the fabric of Sherlock’s coat and his own trousers. He takes a staggering step backwards, clutching his injured leg with both hands, and raises his eyes, wide and glassy in disbelief, to Molly, who is squatting on the floor next to Sherlock and looking almost as appalled at what has just happened as Bill himself. Then Bill retreats another step, misses his footing on the edge of the topmost step of the stairs, and turns a back somersault down straight into the arms of Greg Lestrade as the DI comes rushing up the stairs to intervene._

_The next minutes are a flurry of hectic, but increasingly ordered, activity. Greg lowers his burden, rather ungently, and barks down the stairs for his officers to come up and help, then hurries on to look after Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock is lying on the floor where he went down, panting, his hands groping about aimlessly on the ground, the fourth and fifth finger of the left sticking out at very unnatural angles now. Molly is on her knees next to him, her hands on his shoulders, trying to quieten him._

MOLLY: Keep still, it’s alright now, it’s alright … _(She glances up at Greg, tears in her eyes.)_ His hand, it’s –

LESTRADE _:_ Yes, I see.

_He squats down next to her and puts a comforting hand on his friend's heaving side._

LESTRADE: Sherlock? Listen? There'll be someone here in a couple of minutes to take care of you, alright? You just hang in there. Couple of minutes. _(To Molly)_ Just the hand, is it? _(Molly nods.)_ What was that about losing a lot of blood?

_He quickly looks Sherlock up and down, checking for more injuries but seeing none to speak of. Molly shakes her head, and lets out a very strange nervous giggle._

MOLLY: He was on the wrong page about that, too.

_Lestrade eyes her attentively._

LESTRADE: And what about you?

MOLLY _(blushing):_ I – I don't know how that happened, I didn't really mean -

LESTRADE: I mean are you alright?

MOLLY _(flustered):_ What? Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Really. Not a scratch on me.

_She laughs shakily. Lestrade regards her with an expression of concern, but then accepts her assessment for the time being._

LESTRADE _(nodding at Sherlock, who seems to have calmed down a little):_ You stay with him, okay?

_Molly nods again. Lestrade straightens up and turns to face his officers who have come running up the stairs. Two of the uniformed ones have already taken charge of Bill Wiggins. Bill is whimpering, lying limp with his eyes closed, still clutching his leg, and doesn’t even think about trying to resist arrest or attempt escape._

LESTRADE _(curtly):_ Sally, two ambulances, and more reinforcements to take care of that young man over there, and the one we met at the door.

SALLY: Already on the way, sir.

_Lestrade nods approvingly and then jerks his head at Alec, who stands rather forlorn between two other uniformed officers._

LESTRADE: Take him downstairs, then.

SHERLOCK _(through clenched teeth):_ No, wait, Greg –

_He tries to push himself up from the floor, and Molly, acknowledging that it would be hopeless to try and keep him down against his will, threads her hands under his arms and helps him turn over. She pulls him up far enough for him to lean his head and shoulders against her chest, and he accepts her support gratefully, letting out a long steadying breath as he settles against her._

SHERLOCK: Greg, I'd like to state that -

LESTRADE _(cutting him off):_ Oh no, you don't state anything right now. _(He leans down and gives Sherlock's leg a quick, friendly pat.)_ You just try and relax til help arrives, and let us do our job now.

_He turns away to check whether everything else is in hand._

SHERLOCK _(sounding almost like his old self, rather peevishly):_ Greg, we’ve just caught you a drug baron, you could at least listen to me.

_Lestrade turns back abruptly. Sherlock is trying to glare at him, but finding it too much of an effort, gives up with a groan._

LESTRADE: You’ve caught me a what?

MOLLY _(quickly):_ Bill Wiggins, Greg. He’s Boss McGinty.

_Lestrade stands thunderstruck for a moment, then turns again to stare at the pitiful spectacle of Bill lying on the stairs below him._

MOLLY: And he’s still got the keys to the handcuffs in the pocket of Sherlock’s coat, so could you please –

SHERLOCK _(bracing himself, clearly and firmly):_ But the others were secretly working for me. Alec here, and Ian downstairs.

_Alec stares at Sherlock, no less surprised at this statement than Lestrade is._

LESTRADE: What? You're in shock, my friend. You’re babbling.

SHERLOCK _(testily):_ I'm not in shock.

LESTRADE: That bastard broke your hand.

SHERLOCK: No, _I_ broke my hand. So how could it be shocking when I knew what was coming?

_Lestrade stares at him in disbelief, then turns to Molly as if for support._

MOLLY _(quietly):_ It’s actually true, Greg.

SHERLOCK _(with a grimace):_ Bill merely turned it into a field day for a hand surgeon, when I'd have been content with a simple bit of splinting.

_He makes a move as if to raise his still tethered hands in proof, but thinks better of it with a sharp intake of breath._

LESTRADE _(to Molly, pressing the palms of both hands against his temples as if to stop his head from exploding):_ I really think he needs to stop talking now.

MOLLY: He does, but please get that key first, Greg. It’s hurting more than it needs to, and if he wasn't talking, he'd be howling. _(To Sherlock, who has opened his mouth to protest)_ And don’t _you_ waste a single breath on disagreeing with me. I know that you do.

_Lestrade turns to receive the key to the handcuffs from the officers guarding Bill, then squats down again next to Sherlock and Molly on the floor, and inserts the key into the lock. Molly carefully supports Sherlock's left forearm while Lestrade eases the handcuffs off. Sherlock heaves a deep sigh of relief as his hands separate. Molly gently steers the injured arm up to rest across Sherlock’s chest, and holds it there. The distorted fingers have swollen considerably and taken on an angry dark red colour. Lestrade shakes his head at the sorry sight._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ Alright, one minute, if it’s so urgent. No more.

SHERLOCK _(nodding towards Alec):_ Didn’t see him take sides, did you?

LESTRADE: The one downstairs tried to point a gun at us.

SHERLOCK: And made it ridiculously easy for you to overwhelm him.

LESTRADE _(sceptically):_ Well, we were eight and he was one.

SHERLOCK _(not listening):_ And I should add that there’s no point in looking for anyone else in connection with today’s events, either.

_He struggles to raise his head, and manages to exchange a quick but meaningful look with Alec. Alec gives a little nod, as if to confirm that the message has been understood and will be passed on._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ And if Alec and Ian feel like sharing with you what other job they were hired to do tonight, and where, it may well be worth listening to them.

_Alec nods eagerly in confirmation, his relief palpable._

LESTRADE _(to the two officers who were supposed to arrest Alec):_ Alright. Keep them both downstairs, I’ll be with you in a moment.

_The three men walk off._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock, in a disapproving tone):_ I just hope you know what you’re doing.

SHERLOCK _(leaning back into Molly’s arms, abandoning all attempts at pretence):_ Oh, don’t be stupid, Greg. Do I look like I need more enemies?

_Sweating heavily again now, and shivering with cold at the same time, teeth chattering, he really doesn't._

LESTRADE _(drily):_ You look like you need a warm blanket and a knock-out dose of painkillers.

_As if on cue, Sally Donovan appears at his shoulder._

SALLY: Reinforcements are here, sir, and the ambulances are just pulling up.

LESTRADE: Very good.

 _He gives Molly a questioning glance, which she answers with a reassuring nod, then he follows Sally Donovan_ _down the stairs. There is a short silence. Then -_

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ Thanks for ending it, Molly.

MOLLY _(apologetically):_ I stabbed your coat.

SHERLOCK: I'm sure it'll live.

_Another silence. Then Sherlock and Molly speak up at the same time._

SHERLOCK and MOLLY _(simultaneously):_ Are you –

_They both break off again._

MOLLY _:_ Ssh. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.

_Sherlock tilts his head back to look into Molly’s face._

SHERLOCK: I gave you a fright.

MOLLY: Yes, quite. _(Soberly)_ But I should have seen through it. I can’t believe you took me in.

SHERLOCK _(ruefully):_ I did my best.

MOLLY _(with a sigh):_ You would.

_Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Two teams of paramedics arrive, one pair of them to take care of Bill, the other pair continuing up the stairs to look after Sherlock. Of those, the one in front is a ruddy-cheeked, sturdy fellow, emanating calm and also a kind of cheerfulness that seems slightly out of place to start with but is actually just what is needed now. His colleague is younger, ginger-haired and lanky, but moves with the same quiet confidence. They put down their bags, and the older one squats down by Sherlock and Molly’s side. Sherlock looks him up and down with a quick glance, then obviously decides that he is in sufficiently capable hands, and closes his eyes, glad to abandon himself to their care._

PARAMEDIC: So, what’ve we got here?

MOLLY _(immediately):_ Compound fractures of the proximal phalanges of the fourth and fifth finger, and possibly of the intermediate of the fifth, too. I didn’t check. Didn’t want to make the damage worse.

_She is already rolling the sleeve of Sherlock’s good arm back for an easy IV access. The paramedics exchange an approving look._

PARAMEDIC: Well, you sure know what you’re doing.

MOLLY _(quickly):_ I’m a doctor.

PARAMEDIC _(to Sherlock):_ You’re in luck, mate.

SHERLOCK _(in a whisper, eyes fast closed):_ I know.

_Molly smiles. The paramedics open their bags to get out the necessary equipment, and a moment later, the needle is already in place, and with a slow, steady drip, their patient is finally getting his pain relief._

PARAMEDIC _(to Molly):_ You alright holding him like that for a moment longer? _(Molly nods.)_ Good. _(To Sherlock)_ We’re gonna splint that hand now for the road. It’s not gonna be pleasant, but you’ll feel much better when it’s done.

_Sherlock makes a quiet noise of assent. The two paramedics get to work, as calmly and competently as expected, splinting the fractured fingers and putting Sherlock’s arm up in a sling as tenderly as they can, but all the same, Sherlock is biting his lip by the time they’re finishing, and he even sobs a little at one point, trying but failing miserably to suppress it. Molly, on hearing it, gently tightens her hold on him._

PARAMEDIC _(to Sherlock, in a comforting tone):_ Almost there, mate. And your girl’s got you. You’ll be fine.

MOLLY _(automatically):_ I’m not his -

_The last strap is in place, and the paramedic straightens up._

PARAMEDIC _(patting Molly on the shoulder, jovially):_ No, ‘course you’re not. Right, ready to go now?

SHERLOCK _(opening one eye, a smile playing around his pale lips):_ If I must.

* * *

 **_A few minutes later,_ ** _they're leaving the building, Sherlock on a stretcher, wrapped up warmly in blankets and strapped down securely for the road, left hand padded as comfortably as possible, Molly walking by his side. Outside the building, close to the ambulance, Lestrade stands waiting for them. The other ambulance with Bill Wiggins has already left. As the paramedics with Sherlock approach their vehicle, Lestrade walks up to them. They halt._

LESTRADE _(to the paramedics):_ I’ve just got a few more questions, d'you think he's well enough -

PARAMEDIC _(with an amused shrug):_ Far too well already for his own good. Had to stop him walking down the stairs on his own two feet. You go ahead, couple of minutes won't make a difference.

LESTRADE: Thanks. _(To Sherlock)_ Listen, Alec and Ian have just independently given us the same address of a warehouse out by Weybridge. They both say they were supposed to help Wiggins transact some business there tonight, after dropping you off here. Can we really trust them, d'you think?

SHERLOCK: Absolutely. Make sure you're there. It should give you all the evidence you need.

_His voice is much stronger again than before, and his face less drawn already. Clearly the pain relief is taking effect._

LESTRADE: And Alec told me a very strange story about what happened up in this building just before we arrived, too, which quite frankly defies belief.

_Sherlock grimaces, and glances at his injured hand._

SHERLOCK: Yes. Don't tell Mycroft. He's going to be insufferable.

LESTRADE _(a bit guiltily):_ Oh. Too late, I'm afraid. _(Sherlock groans.)_ Sorry. But you know, Mycroft is the reason why we found you so quickly, so I figured he had a right to know. Seriously, without him I'd still have divers searching the Thames for your corpse now. _(He exchanges a look with Molly.)_ He was the one who insisted on establishing first what Molly was trying to apologise to you for, and where from.

SHERLOCK _(annoyed):_ He would, the prying git.

LESTRADE _(unimpressed):_ And of course, that was the lead we needed. The rest of it was just putting together CCTV data from the Brentford Marina to here.

MOLLY _(in a slightly reproachful tone):_ And I think _I’m_ very grateful for his prying.

_There is the noise of another car pulling up, and car doors opening and closing. Lestrade and Molly turn to look._

LESTRADE: Speaking of which -

SHERLOCK _(exasperated):_ Oh, _please_ not.

_A moment later, Mycroft Holmes stands next to Lestrade by the side of the stretcher, looking down at his brother and shaking his head. His eyes travel quickly from Sherlock's pale face to his splinted and padded hand, and then back to his face._

MYCROFT _(half disappointed, half amused):_ Not even a day, Sherlock? Not even a day?

SHERLOCK _(acidly):_ If you’ve only come to gloat, go away.

_He turns his head away from his brother in disgust - and looks straight into the beaming face of John Watson, who has walked up unnoticed to the other side of the stretcher._

MYCROFT _(innocently):_ No, I was just giving someone a lift.

_Sherlock stares at John as if at a ghost. Then he turns back to Mycroft._

SHERLOCK _(furiously):_ Are you crazy? What’s he supposed to be doing here? You take him back where he belongs, and quickly, before I forget myself!

_Lestrade and Molly exchange a puzzled look at this sudden outburst, and so do the two paramedics._

JOHN _(unfazed, in his best doctor’s voice):_ Sherlock, don’t get worked up. _I_ wanted to come. Mycroft took me along against his will, and only under constant protest.

SHERLOCK _(disdainfully):_ What, he, against his will? Not in a million years. _(To Mycroft, still positively enraged)_ You take him back, now!

JOHN: In a minute. When I’ve seen with my own eyes that you’ll be alright again.

MYCROFT _(drily):_ He sounds quite like himself again already, I’d say.

SHERLOCK _(still peeved):_ I _am_ alright. It's just two fingers, for God's sake. That means ninety-eight percent of my physical substance is intact and fully functional, so I really don't see what all the fuss is about.

PARAMEDIC _(asserting his medical authority with a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder):_ You be quiet now and let us fuss on. _(With a significant look at the transparent bags of Sherlock's IV drip)_ 'Cause there's other stuff we can put in there, too, and we will, if you insist.

MYCROFT: Quite right. _(To Sherlock, disapprovingly)_ You're forgetting your manners, brother dear. This is really not how it is done, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK _(deflating):_ Oh. Oh, right. ( _He makes a dismissive little gesture with his good hand. In a flat voice)_ Alright, everyone please congratulate John, but be quick, Mary’s waiting.

_John, Lestrade and Molly all look at Sherlock, stunned. Then comprehension – and a broad grin – dawns on Lestrade's face._

LESTRADE: Really? John?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Yes, _obviously._ Helen Rose Watson, born this afternoon between 2 and 3 p.m., seven pounds eight ounces, nineteen and a half inches. And don't forget your best wishes to Mary for a speedy recovery, because emergency caesareans really aren't pleasant. _(To Mycroft, sarcastically)_ Happy now?

MYCROFT _(approvingly):_ Excellent.

_John is still staring at Sherlock, dumbfounded. Then he looks across at Mycroft._

JOHN: You said his phone drowned.

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ Oh, come on, just look at you. _(He points with his good hand.)_ Clear signs of a sleepless night, stubble and unwashed hair, and yet you're grinning like an idiot. _(Rapid fire deduction mode - as rapid as he can still manage, anyway)_ Helen because it was always Mary's favourite, Rose in memory of your deceased mother. It's just after five now, so allowing for the time it took Mycroft to locate you, fill you in and take you here, that puts the birth at some time between two and three this afternoon, and after almost twenty-four hours of labour, it's statistically very unlikely to have ended in any other way than with a caesarean. An estimate of Mary's weight and girth when last seen, compared to her usual physique -

_The rest of the deduction is drowned as Greg throws his arms around John and gives him a huge pat on the back, laughing delightedly. Then Molly, too, hugs John affectionately, beaming, happy tears in her eyes, and even the paramedics insist on shaking his hand. John lets it all wash over him, smiling, but slightly distracted all the same, obviously still trying to get his head around how Sherlock knows all of this already._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, when things have calmed down again):_ But how did you even know that we -

SHERLOCK _(in a rather tired voice now):_ I had Mary text me. When you left for the hospital, yesterday afternoon.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK: Yes. So I wouldn't -

JOHN _(in amused disbelief):_ What, drag me off an a case?

SHERLOCK _(with a sigh):_ Of course. _(Drily)_ Don't tell me I could have trusted _you_ to do it. Or to stay with your wife if I _had_ tried to contact you.

JOHN _(shaking his head, affectionately):_ You're an idiot, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: And you're a dad, so go and look after your family now. Give Mary my best, and - _(with a glance at his damaged hand, and with genuine regret)_ \- tell little Helen I'm sorry she'll have to wait a while yet for her lullaby.

JOHN _(a little mischievously):_ You could always sing, you know.

SHERLOCK _(deadpan):_ I really couldn't.

MYCROFT _(to John, highly amused):_ Make sure you record that and send it to me.

_Sherlock glares at his brother._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ You've just lost a bet, dear brother, and lost it so spectacularly that I think I'm in for a little treat.

SHERLOCK: You wish.

MYCROFT _(in a quiet aside):_ _Nine_ ounces, by the way.

SHERLOCK _(closing his eyes):_ Go away _._

_Mycroft pulls a face, but takes a step backwards from the stretcher to allow the paramedics to take up their charge again._

MYCROFT _(to the paramedics):_ Where were you going to take him?

PARAMEDIC: Back to Ashford, we're stationed there.

MYCROFT: Then let me redirect you. ( _He takes a business card and a fountain pen out of the inner pocket of his jacket and jots down a note on the back of the card, then hands it to the paramedic.)_ I believe this is the more suitable place. Please have this card passed on to Professor Grunenberg with my compliments, and let him know that I would very much appreciate it if he was to perform the necessary surgery himself _._

_The paramedic looks down at the address on the back of the card, then back up at Mycroft, clearly impressed, and nods. The younger paramedic walks over to open the rear doors of the ambulance._

PARAMEDIC: Right then, off we go.

_John reaches out, takes Sherlock's good hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Then, not quite ready yet to let go, he looks towards the open ambulance doors._

SHERLOCK _(without opening his eyes):_ Don't even think about it.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

_**A private – almost luxurious - hospital room.** _ _Muted light from a reading lamp above the single bed. Darkness outside the windows. On the bed, Sherlock is sitting on top of the covers, leaning against the raised head of the bed. He is still in the clothes he wore when the ambulance picked him up, and his left arm is still in the provisional padded sling that the paramedics bound it up in. But he's still on an IV drip, too, and looks almost comfortable, out of the worst of the pain. The wound on his forehead has also been cleaned and neatly taped. His legs are covered with a blanket, and he has drawn them up to make a reading desk for the large book on his lap. He seems quite absorbed in it, and even when there is a knock on the door and it opens to admit Molly Hooper, he takes a moment to raise his head and look across. She seems more surprised to see him than he to see her._

MOLLY _(closing the door behind her):_ What are you doing here?

SHERLOCK _(amused, with a glance at his left arm in its sling):_ Not sure. Something wrong with my hand, I’m told.

MOLLY _(awkwardly):_ I didn't mean – I just thought you'd be in the OT by now.

SHERLOCK: They're still waiting for Professor Grunenberg. He's flying back from a conference in Stockholm, apparently. _(Grumpily)_ Trust Mycroft to arrange that only to put it on the bill, too.

MOLLY _(with a smile):_ It may have more to do with the fact that Professor Grunenberg is the leading authority on hand surgery in the Western world, you know.

SHERLOCK _(unwilling to be placated):_ Yeah, that means he's got a legion of disciples and assistants who could all do it just as well and at half the price.

_Molly shakes her head at him, then walks closer to the bed and sits down on the edge of the visitor's chair that has been placed next to it._

MOLLY: How's the pain?

SHERLOCK _(in a different tone, calm and content again):_ Not worth mentioning, now. _(With a nod at the IV drip)_ They're keeping me pleasantly hazy.

MOLLY: Good.

SHERLOCK _(after a moment):_ What about you?

MOLLY _(quickly):_ I'm fine. _(She does, in fact, look a little peaky – pale face, tired eyes.)_ Sally's been keeping me company, but now she's gone down to Weybridge to take care of Boss McGinty's business with Greg, so I thought -

SHERLOCK _(surprised):_ Sally Donovan?

MOLLY: Yes. She came in the ambulance with us. But you were asleep the moment they closed the doors, so you never noticed. _(She suppresses a yawn.)_ She said she wanted my statement, but to be honest, I think what she really wanted was to keep an eye on me for a bit, and make sure I got something to eat and drink, too. _(Seeing Sherlock's look of disbelief)_ You know, Sally is that kind of person. She's tough, she doesn't fuss, and she doesn't like to let it show, but she cares. _(With a smile)_ Some people are like that. And they're not the worst sort.

_Sherlock neither replies nor returns the smile._

MOLLY: Anyway, they have a fantastic cafeteria here. More like a restaurant, really. I had a lovely – _(blushing)_ sorry. Not very nice of me to talk about food and drink to you right now.

 _Sherlock merely shrugs._ _Molly nods at the heavy book on Sherlock's lap._

MOLLY: Shouldn’t you be lying down?

SHERLOCK: Probably, but this is far too interesting. They got it from Grunenberg’s office for me. _(He props the book up so Molly can see the cover. It is Green's Manual of Operative Hand Surgery.)_ They're going to do some absolutely fascinating things involving wires as fine as a hair, and all manner of -

MOLLY: Not that you'll see any of that.

SHERLOCK: Yeah, I tried to talk the anaesthetist out of the idea of a general anaesthesia, told him I wanted to watch, but he wouldn't listen.

MOLLY: He better hadn't.

_Sherlock looks genuinely disappointed._

MOLLY: And talking of surgery, Sally also had a call from Ashford Hospital to tell her that mere stitches will do, and he’ll be fine again. No permanent damage.

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ Not that anyone cares.

MOLLY _(quietly):_ I do, you know.

SHERLOCK _(sincerely):_ You should be the last person to feel that you have to.

MOLLY: I usually make my incisions with a little more thought, though, and with a steadier hand. I shudder to think about all the things that might have gone wrong. _(In spite of her deliberately light tone, she literally does shudder.)_ I'm kind of grateful that -

SHERLOCK: He's the one who should be grateful that you didn’t send him to a slab in your own morgue straight away.

MOLLY: Yes, that would have been a bit strange, I admit.

_Another shiver passes over her, again in an odd contrast to her now almost anxiously unconcerned tone. Sherlock, noticing it, frowns._

SHERLOCK _(firmly):_ Molly, don't give it a second thought. You were amazing. Absolutely amazing. Not only at the end, on the stairs, but even more so back in that office. You were brilliant. You made it look absolutely authentic. And keeping your nerve like that - if I ever do lose a limb, I’ll make sure it happens somewhere in your vicinity.

MOLLY _(drily):_ Very considerate.

SHERLOCK: No, really. You did exactly the right thing. Took charge, saved what there was to save -

MOLLY _(rather bitterly):_ But it would have been a lot more brilliant, I suppose, if there _had_ been anything that needed saving at all.

SHERLOCK: Oh, but that’s what I’m trying to tell you – seriously, if you hadn’t been so convincing, Bill and Alec would never have bought it. They’d have seen through it immediately, and gone would have been our one chance to make them panic, and get us out of there quickly and without too much damage to anyone.

MOLLY: I still can’t believe –

SHERLOCK: What, that I’d chop off my own fingers in a good cause? Or that you _thought_ that I’d do that?

MOLLY _(truly upset):_ That’s what I’m still trying to figure out. Not easy, somehow.

SHERLOCK: But you were _meant_ to believe it, Molly. I made you. You had no choice.

MOLLY _(close to tears now):_ That might just be exactly the point.

_There is a tense silence. Sherlock regards Molly steadily, searching her face._

SHERLOCK _(intrigued rather than offended):_ You're angry with me. You're seriously, genuinely angry with me.

_Molly wipes her eyes with a hurried gesture of her hand._

MOLLY: Yes, I think I am. I – I know you just wanted to get us out of there, but – _(in a rush)_ but it was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen you do, and that includes the time when you came hurtling past my window at Barts on your way to the pavement.

_She hugs herself, avoiding Sherlock's eyes._

SHERLOCK _(gently):_ That wasn’t real, either.

MOLLY: It was, for everyone but you. _(She raises her head again to meet his eyes.)_ And this time – this time, I heard your fingers break, Sherlock, I _heard_ it. So don't talk to me about “not real”.

SHERLOCK _(matter-of-factly):_ Yes. But that was the result of a miscalculation. I assumed I’d knocked enough of those files askew to stop the drawer from closing completely, and to take most of the impact. I admit that I got that wrong.

MOLLY: And all the blood?

SHERLOCK: That was intentional. “Razor-sharp edge” was a gross exaggeration, but thankfully it was jagged enough to tear the skin and produce enough blood to mask the lack of an actual life-threatening injury.

MOLLY _(shaking her head):_ You should just hear yourself talking about it like that, it’s -

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ Molly, if I was alright with it, why shouldn’t you be?

MOLLY _(now sounding bewildered and vexed in equal measure):_ You saved me from a disgusting perv by making me believe that you were deliberately mutilating yourself in front of my eyes. How do those two things go together?

SHERLOCK _(after a moment, no less puzzled):_ You’re angry with me, and still you held me when I cried. How do _those_ two things go together?

_Molly sniffs. A tear runs down her cheek. She is trembling in every limb now. Abruptly, Sherlock moves over on his bed, away from the side where Molly is sitting, and holds up a corner of the blanket._

SHERLOCK: Come here. Don’t be silly. Lie down, get warm. Things are catching up with you, that's all. It’s a perfectly normal reaction to a completely abnormal Sunday afternoon. And you can continue being angry at me from here as well as from over there, for all –

MOLLY _(bitterly, wiping the tear away)_ : - you care?

SHERLOCK _(pointedly):_ \- it’s worth. _(Reconsidering, soberly)_ Hardly better, is it? Sorry. Consider it unsaid. And now get in here before _my_ feet get cold, too.

_After a short moment of hesitation, Molly kicks off her shoes, gets up from her chair, climbs onto the bed and settles down at Sherlock’s side, careful not to crowd him, or even touch him in any way. She tucks her legs under the blanket and pulls it up to her middle. Then she leans back against the mattress and closes her eyes. Slowly, her breathing calms down to a more relaxed rate, and a little colour returns to her cheeks. Sherlock watches her attentively, eyebrows drawn together, truly concerned. But the moment she stirs and opens her eyes again, he wipes that expression off his face and replaces it with something more neutral._

MOLLY: Sherlock?

SHERLOCK: Mmh?

_Molly turns her head to look at him._

MOLLY _(with a frown, genuinely interested):_ Can you really vomit on cue? Just like that?

SHERLOCK _(amused):_ No. At least not without a severe concussion to start with. _(With a wry smile)_ As it was, I was actually proud that I managed to hold it back until the right moment. Without that, it would have looked only half as dramatic, wouldn't it? Remind me to thank Alec for the solid groundwork.

MOLLY: Thank him? It looked _awful_ , Sherlock, you taking that kick in the head, even from a distance.

SHERLOCK: He may have overdone it a bit.

MOLLY: They _weren't_ on your side, were they?

SHERLOCK: Well, they are again now. _(With a sigh)_ But I really can't blame them. Mycroft remunerated them very handsomely indeed for their role in the magic trick at Barts, but then I was gone for years. And even when I came back, it took a while until I had jobs for them again, and then I was out of action again, and they were left hanging in the air. So when Bill came and probably offered them double my usual rate, they didn't think twice. _(He yawns.)_ But that makes it sound a lot more generous than it was, really. I simply assumed that they'd be much happier to tell Greg all they knew about Bill's business connections if they didn't have to worry about any of it coming back to bite them in court, later on. _(A pause.)_ It might be a useful skill though, don't you think?

MOLLY _(confused):_ What might?

SHERLOCK: Being able to vomit on cue. Without external stimulation, I mean.

MOLLY: Is that even physiologically possible?

SHERLOCK _(seriously):_ Why not? With a lot of practice, almost anything is.

_Molly pulls a face and makes a revolted little sound._

SHERLOCK: Alright. Maybe not a good idea. _(He gives his IV drip a sceptical look.)_ I suppose _they're_ overdoing it a bit now, too.

MOLLY _(after a moment):_ And _did_ you know Bill was Boss McGinty when you came to Kew Gardens?

SHERLOCK: I was as good as certain, yes.

MOLLY: How?

SHERLOCK: Thanks to you, actually. You planted that idea in my head, when you mentioned last night that any pharmacy technician could do it. Because that's exactly what Bill used to do for a living, at the Royal London, and where he got addicted in the first place, of course. So I met up with him last night, when I came home from Barts, and told him, as a shot in the dark, that I was going after Boss McGinty. The response I got was very, very eloquent. Well, it was Bill, so it wasn't, but you know what I mean.

MOLLY _(unsmiling):_ How's that?

SHERLOCK: He tried to head me off, and when I didn't let him, he gave me a fair warning not to interfere.

MOLLY: What warning?

SHERLOCK: He told me to be scared. And he told me his girl's name. And then this afternoon, when he called me, pretending that he was on a hot trail, I knew it was a challenge, so I went to meet it.

MOLLY: You walked open-eyed into a trap.

SHERLOCK: No. I made myself the bait. Another idea you gave me, by the way, when we talked last night. Though of course I couldn't, in all conscience, use anyone for that purpose but myself. I'm sorry Bill saw that differently. That was something I truly didn't foresee, or I'd have taken measures to prevent it.

MOLLY: He wanted you to believe that I had something to do with his business.

SHERLOCK: I know.

MOLLY: And _did_ you wonder?

SHERLOCK _(very decidedly):_ Not for a fraction of a second.

MOLLY: Why not?

SHERLOCK: Because you'd make a frankly awful drug baron, Molly, in every conceivable respect except the purely technical one. And an even worse drug baron's bird, if I may say so.

MOLLY _(pointedly):_ Oh, thank you. Speaking of birds, by the way - that story, you know. Of Birdy Edwards. Was that true?

SHERLOCK: Every word of it.

MOLLY: I didn't know that.

SHERLOCK: No, how would you?

MOLLY: Well, it's kind of the founding myth of your detective business, isn't it?

_Sherlock turns his face away from her to look out of the window into the darkness outside. When he speaks, it is in a surprisingly harsh tone._

SHERLOCK: It's not a myth. It's a sad and sorry piece of real history, I'm anything but proud of it, and I'm very grateful to the man who was the sergeant in charge back then to have kept it to himself so far.

MOLLY _(realising the meaning of those last words, dismayed):_ Oh.

_Sherlock turns back to face her again._

SHERLOCK _(still in the same bitter voice):_ I heard it all, and I can still hear the poor sod screaming even now, but I was in no state to go down and stop it happening, so the least I could do afterwards was tell the police where to look for the murderers, wasn't it?

_There is a long silence._

MOLLY: I'm sorry I asked.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ I suppose you had a right to know.

MOLLY: Still. _(Attempting a lighter tone)_ But I'm happy that it ended well for the girl and her kid, at least.

SHERLOCK _(sounding suddenly rather tired):_ Oh, but it didn't. Of course not. Those stories never do, you know.

MOLLY: Oh.

_They sit quietly again for a while, both absorbed in their own thoughts, Molly looking sad, Sherlock simply worn-out._

MOLLY _(quietly):_ Bill was right about one thing, though.

SHERLOCK: Hmm?

MOLLY: When he said you never do what you're told.

SHERLOCK: Why?

MOLLY _(with a sigh):_ Because last night, at Barts, when you said you were going to look for the answer to the riddle, I said to you, “Don't stumble over it in the dark”.

SHERLOCK _(after a moment's pause, with a drowsy smile):_ You caught me when I fell.

_They turn their heads towards each other, and Molly returns his smile, making it the first they actually share since they parted in her lab at Barts the night before. Then Molly's phone in her pocket buzzes a text alert, breaking the spell._

MOLLY: Oh. I hope that's good news from Greg. D'you want me to look?

SHERLOCK: Sure.

_Molly digs her phone out of her pocket and checks the screen. Her expression softens instantly._

MOLLY _(delighted):_ Oh. Not Greg. A picture. The first. _(She holds the phone out to Sherlock.)_ Look.

_On the screen is the picture of a new-born baby, snuggled in a white woollen blanket, eyes closed, deep asleep, tiny fingers curled into fists and propped under a resolute little chin, the very image of peace and calm and contentment. Molly and Sherlock sit for a moment in silence, both contemplating the small – and not so small - miracle, Molly smiling happily, Sherlock very still._

MOLLY _(after a moment):_ Mary's nose and John's chin, don't you think?

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ And Mary's insatiable appetite for anything chocolate, and John's flatfeet.

MOLLY _(glancing up at him):_ Really?

SHERLOCK: No idea. _(Slightly irked)_ What is it that always makes people want to see someone _else_ in a child, as if it isn't a person in its own right?

MOLLY _(with a shrug, still smiling):_ Just finding more reasons to love her, I think.

_Sherlock puts his head to one side, his eyes back on the picture of Helen Rose Watson. Then he shakes his head decidedly._

SHERLOCK: What nonsense. Absolutely not necessary.

_They return to their silent contemplation of the new-born. Then Molly suddenly starts giggling._

SHERLOCK: What?

_Molly puts her hand against her lips to stop it, but to no avail._

SHERLOCK _(half amused, half irritated):_ What is it?

MOLLY _(still giggling):_ Oh, I don't believe this. _(A deep blush rises on her face. She tilts her head back, and draws a long breath.)_ I'm in bed with you, and we're talking about babies.

SHERLOCK _:_ Would you rather talk about something else? Like –

_He looks around the room as if for inspiration._

MOLLY: No, no... it's fine, it's fine. _(She runs her hands over her face.)_ Sorry. That just – doesn't happen every day.

_Sherlock frowns at her as if he honestly can't see what might be so funny about it._

MOLLY _(calming down again):_ Never mind. Never mind.

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ I don't, you know.

_Molly looks down at the phone in her lap, and after a moment, raises her eyes again to meet Sherlock's._

MOLLY: Sherlock -

SHERLOCK: Yes?

MOLLY: I – _(in a rush again, as if to get the words out before she can think better of it)_ I know Professor Grunenberg has a reputation of being able to work miracles, but it'll still be weeks and weeks til your hand is back to normal, and ...

SHERLOCK: And?

MOLLY: And I'd so love to hear it. Really.

SHERLOCK: Oh. ( _Another pause.)_ Alright.

_And he closes his eyes and begins to hum quietly, a hauntingly beautiful little melody that rises and falls in gentle, almost mesmerising cadences, intense and soothing at the same time. It's not long, over in barely a minute, but he reprises it immediately, then a third time, and after that, Molly picks it up and joins in. When, a short while later, the door to the room is opened by the night nurse to admit a still coated, slightly travel-worn and out-of-breath Professor Grunenberg, it is to the sound of Helen Rose’s lullaby in a duet, a deep baritone and a warm alto, the two voices intertwining as effortlessly and naturally as the fingers of their owner's hands do on top of the blanket that covers them both, Sherlock's right and Molly's left, almost too beautiful to disturb._

 

THE END

February 2015

 

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks, again, to my more-than-a-beta-reader Cooklet - medical advisor, language teacher, plot tweaker, purger of colloquialisms to Mycroft Holmes, occupational counsellor to Bill Wiggins, purveyor of all the encouragement I could ask for - in short, the leading authority on beta reading in the Western world. You’re a star, dear! 
> 
> Thank you also to all reviewers and followers/subscribers – it's been a fun journey, and your feedback is VERY much appreciated!!!


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